Sunday

I wake up naturally and squirm and stretch away nightmares of work while savouring the realisation that today doesn't involve any.

Lazily moving downstairs to sounds of the dog yipping for my attention and his favourite garden bush, it's surprisingly clear that the day promises sunshine. I feed the cat who is clearly on the verge of total starvation and bring two cups of tea back upstairs. Plumping myself back in bed, I reach for the book I've nearly finished, and stayed up until midnight reading last night.

Blinds pulled up enough to let bright streams of summer in, we sip tea and chat while getting absorbed in our books by turns. Middle child brings the cat in purring, twice, who immediately runs away, twice. He will only cuddle on his own terms. He probably gets it from me. The dog has no shame or self-respect and is allowed to plant himself lengthways on our bed, his Sunday treat, for scraps of affection at any opportunity.  

Smallest and middle child come and go, citing Guinness World Book of Records facts and prodding the dog's ears until we chase them away to help themselves to breakfast, with the encouragement to consume food groups other than sugar.

I've finished my book and the sun is beaming at us now, beckoning us outside for our Sunday morning walk, so we acquiesce, unhurriedly. Sitting on the decking beforehand in the July warmth, contentment abounds. A Brazilian band are interviewed on Radio 6 by Cerys Matthews and suddenly I am overwhelmed by grief and nostalgia. I miss Brazil; I miss our family of four; I miss my grandparents. I feel like there are pieces of me in places I can't get to. 

But here I am home. 

We walk and talk, accompanied by our greyhound, up to the farm, where the chickens greet us territorially but politely. The dog and his nemesis, a particularly overbearing rooster, face off in the egg barn. We drop coins into the honesty box and select two full boxes of fresh eggs. Hidden away snugly between two hay bales are two feathery chickens, cuddling peacefully.

We take the dog for a run in the field nearby but he's more interested in trying to eat a stale slab of bread he's found than he is in taking any exercise. He probably gets it from me. We amble back home after picking up a couple of pints of milk at the village shop.

By the time we get home, the roast chicken in the oven smells divine and one of our children has clothes on. 

I think I'll make scones.