RICHARD PORTER

FINGERS OF SUNLIGHT CREEP ACROSS THE fields, sliding over hedges and climbing up walls. A blackbird sings, a dog barks, the cat gets shooed off the duvet.

Alarms sound. Phones chirp. The early train clack-clacks out of the station. That warm security blanket smell of toast permeates the house. Butter is spread, milk is spilt, the minister for something or other purrs superciliously from the television. The kettle boils.