I still wake at nine on Sunday mornings. I don't mean to. When he's hungover, I think he thinks I do it just to annoy him. But I don't. Sunday mornings are too good to waste. I lie in my lovely bed and think of happy things. It's a four-poster bed, an antique, wrought iron and narrow. One of the brass bedknobs is missing; I've put duct tape over the sharp edge and trailed plastic flowers from the hollow.
The bed is lovely and warm. The window's open to allow any fetid farty smells to float free. It's chill outside and my nose is cold, it thinks it can smell the autumn. I can still taste the tea I drank earlier, pressing my nose to the mug between sips to warm it. Thinking about it makes my tummy rumble for its breakfast. I'll make porridge soon. Microwaved and made with water, it sounds like prison fare. But I'll add berries and honey, and savour every spoonful before tracking it in my Fat Fighters food diary. I'm nine and a half pounds down. It doesn't seem like much to me as I survey my still muffinlike midriff, but nine and half pounds is a fine-sized baby or a fair-sized Yorkshire terrier.
Upstairs, the other Rosie's wide awake and waggling her tubby bum. She's a wet-nosed chocolate-brown labrador, and the sound of her fat and giddy skitterings across the neighbour's wooden floor is a cheerful reminder that on sunny days like today, there's a whole world waiting out there. Like her, I can't fucking wait to get out for a walk. On rainy days, Rosie snuffles under the net curtains and presses her nose to the window upstairs, doleful eyes pleading with passers-by.
My love stirs and mumbles in his sleep. "Give him half an hour more, then whip off the covers and put his shoes on" advises Annie, a braver woman than I. But my pitter patter pottering at his laptop piques his curiosity. "Are you writing a post? What's it about?" "Sunday mornings". He snuggles in closer, sandwiching my cold feet between his thighs. "Is it the longest post in the world about Sunday mornings?" It might be. I've been awake, like Rosie upstairs, for some time, luxuriating in his warmth and dreaming of a gambol on the beach. We'll go to Bull Island today. I'll bring my kite, my aeroplane one with the tail that makes a propeller sound. He'll hold my hand and tell me that I look pretty in my red coat, and my cheeks will redden to match it. I'm glad of the cold as I'll have an excuse to wear my woollen hat - it's red too, with a knitted green stalk and two leaves sprouting from the crown. Apple-cheeked and Rosie. It's going to be a good day.
The bed is lovely and warm. The window's open to allow any fetid farty smells to float free. It's chill outside and my nose is cold, it thinks it can smell the autumn. I can still taste the tea I drank earlier, pressing my nose to the mug between sips to warm it. Thinking about it makes my tummy rumble for its breakfast. I'll make porridge soon. Microwaved and made with water, it sounds like prison fare. But I'll add berries and honey, and savour every spoonful before tracking it in my Fat Fighters food diary. I'm nine and a half pounds down. It doesn't seem like much to me as I survey my still muffinlike midriff, but nine and half pounds is a fine-sized baby or a fair-sized Yorkshire terrier.
Upstairs, the other Rosie's wide awake and waggling her tubby bum. She's a wet-nosed chocolate-brown labrador, and the sound of her fat and giddy skitterings across the neighbour's wooden floor is a cheerful reminder that on sunny days like today, there's a whole world waiting out there. Like her, I can't fucking wait to get out for a walk. On rainy days, Rosie snuffles under the net curtains and presses her nose to the window upstairs, doleful eyes pleading with passers-by.
My love stirs and mumbles in his sleep. "Give him half an hour more, then whip off the covers and put his shoes on" advises Annie, a braver woman than I. But my pitter patter pottering at his laptop piques his curiosity. "Are you writing a post? What's it about?" "Sunday mornings". He snuggles in closer, sandwiching my cold feet between his thighs. "Is it the longest post in the world about Sunday mornings?" It might be. I've been awake, like Rosie upstairs, for some time, luxuriating in his warmth and dreaming of a gambol on the beach. We'll go to Bull Island today. I'll bring my kite, my aeroplane one with the tail that makes a propeller sound. He'll hold my hand and tell me that I look pretty in my red coat, and my cheeks will redden to match it. I'm glad of the cold as I'll have an excuse to wear my woollen hat - it's red too, with a knitted green stalk and two leaves sprouting from the crown. Apple-cheeked and Rosie. It's going to be a good day.
