Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Sunday. 6 am. Sunny, freezing cold, too tired, why am I awake?! Tabby cat prowls the landscape of my bed, daintily stepping over me then head butts me into stroking her, purrs at ridiculous decibel levels for this quiet time of day. Yawning. Jaw-splitting. Unfolding unnatural bends in joints, popping and crackling like human cereal. Teenage son awake at the same unseemly hour, keen as mustard, willing to get out of his cosy nest, eagerness only for the prospect of the rare treat of an online tournament for his current game. Coffee. Lots… Rinse and repeat… Daughter, yawning and cold, demanding food, snuggling into blankets on sofa, still half asleep but won’t go back to bed. Ping. Football WhatsApp. Snow-covered pitches, back to bed…?! (*praying…) Unanswered prayers (a la Garth Brooks), freezing football pitch, sun/hail/wind/snow, 16 weeks without football, 22 stiff, clumsy, gangly teenagers, chocolate biccies at half time, travel-cup coffee cold too soon. Goals… Plural… Even a penalty ...

Bedroom curtains breathe in and out, in and out, in perfect rhythm with the cool, early morning breeze. Bathroom fan clatters discordantly in the same gusts of air. Enough hazy light to make out the shape of the sleeping man next to me, gently snoring. Magpies argue their way into the morning, and the kinder sound of blackbirds heartily greet the day, early spring heralds in their shiny black cloaks. A half-asleep child in the next room sneezes several times, and then settles. Cat leaps daintily onto my bed, picks her way through the hills and valleys of our limbs underneath the quilt; delicately and urgently pushes her cool nose under my hand, demanding attention. Child two out of bed, in the bathroom, water running and radio playing quietly - for him.  Pokes his head around my door, mumbles something that faintly resembles ‘morning’, and thumps downstairs in that half-awake, teenage-boy way. Early-rising neighbour over the road drives off to his postie job, and next door piles hi...