Yorkshire tea. Proper strength contentment. Except. Something’s off in the fridge. The chicken necks I bought for the cat have gone bad. I give the situation my best poker face, retire to the study with neural mud in my gears. Lennon is singing of friends and lovers past. I look at my pants. Three sizes of clothes are not helping me stick to any particular weight range or wife. This morning I was all sunlight. I walked by the huge rosemary bush on the corner of Whynot and Boundary. Dragged my hand through its branches, gathering the viscid scent to my fingers. I’m untethered. There’s some sort of tin-can telephone innocence saturating the moment. My daughter grabs me by the arm, pulls me back to earth, shows me something she knows will make us both laugh. Peripherally I catch her postman eyes in their joyous delivery. Thinking to myself, that’s the best thing in the world, I realise I am, as usual, guiltier than most— having to be reminded how much I love the galloping piano part.