don’t want to get up today. I’d rather stay hidden under my duvet with my face partially buried in my tear-damp pillow. The bedroom is quiet; the whole house is. My husband Andrew, an early riser, will be downstairs somewhere sitting with his own thoughts, coffee in hand. There’s a blade of sunlight from the partially closed shutters piercing my closed eyelids, reminding me that the days are longer now, and the season I‘ve come to love and loathe in equal measure
