Sunday is a day for staying in bed, reading the papers, curling up with the cat. Until there is a break in the weather and you can rush outside to clean the car of the grit and grime that has built up over recent icy winter days. Two hands make lighter work of it, but somehow it takes longer. It feels like a race against the gathering steel coloured clouds, but in the end the rain holds off until we are driving to my mother’s house and we drive into and through a shower. Sunday is a day for visiting my mother, for sitting in a too-warm house, for talking and laughing. We stay a little later than usual. The talk goes on for longer, the laughter is intermittent. Our drive back home is in darkness and mostly silent. The long lie-in at the start of the day keeps us awake, despite the exertions in between. Perhaps also the conversation has stimulated us. Whatever it is, we go to bed too late. The wind is blowing loudly outside. It makes it harder for me to fall asleep. My sleep is close to the surface, and I can hear you snoring.