It’s Sunday morning. It’s quiet. I can only hear one or two birds outside. I can tell the sky is grey through a small gap in the curtains. Somewhere, somebody is mumbling in that typical morning voice. I can’t tell what he’s saying.

More birds now, stirred into action by the baleful cries of a crow as it swooped over them. I try to drink from my mug of instant coffee, but it’s too hot. It might also be too strong, judging by the smell of it. But then, it is Sunday morning.

No, not too strong. Well, maybe a little strong. But like I said, it’s Sunday morning. I need something to wake me up, something to drag me out of the remnants of Saturday night that cling to me like treacle.

Sunday. The last day of the week, or the first, depending on your perspective. I once steadfastly defended the idea that Sunday was at the start of the week, but now… I’m not so sure.

It seems to make more sense that Sunday is an ending–a punctuation point before each Monday. The end of a sentence that’s never been written before. Until now. Until today.

And then: tomorrow.