Getting the Whole Bed to Yourself

It’s Saturday morning, 7.30. You wake up under your own steam, step over your clothes to take a leak, and, without stopping to mop up your missings, you immediately return to your bed. Ten O’Clock comes, and you wake in an near-opiate wooze in the middle of the bed, coccooned in downy bliss. Undraped, you walk into the kitchen and load up the tray with coffee and toast served on the last clean plate you can find. Ignoring the mail, you gather the newspaper from the letterbox, mute your phone, and step back into your duvet womb.

You play with the radio until you find a station that engages you, then you turn the television on. You pledge to yourself that you will shake the toastcrumbs from beneath your arse once you’ve read the Sports Section.

Noon comes. What am I going to do today? Where can I go? Who might I meet?