The sunniest Sunday morning this year, surely? I am home alone, having kissed Daniel goodbye for the morning only minutes after I crawled out of bed. A day full of good intentions lies ahead, but for now I'm enjoying one of those rare mornings of stillness, where every moment is so full and so visible that it seems to last for minutes.
I've switched the radio station to BBC 3; rousing violin quartets and rhotic German voices seem to bring into bloom the snowdrops on the roadside through the window. The morning is coming to life in polyphony; the music is somehow visible in the room.
Sunlight is streaming through the windows and skylights, refracting through last night's empty bottles, turning the fruitbowl into a still life waiting to happen.
My book is open on the table, pages splayed fan-like following a leisurely breakfast-table read. Remnants of orange juice and toast left to be cleared, while precious after-breakfast time is drawn out for as long as possible.
A pile of plates and a hoard of empty glasses by the sink; evidence of last night's indulgence, and the early-morning headaches of today. I am already looking forward to standing by the window, up to my elbows in bubbles, soaking in the morning sun while I wash away all traces of too much pizza, beer and pudding.
Generous squares of solid blue when I look through each of the skylights, enticing me outside and into the day. Though I secretly hoped for a rainy day, during which I could get all of my work done without guilt for being indoors, the promise of a brisk walk and sunshine on the top of my head is already refreshing my groggy mind.
A promising Sunday is planned ahead, and by default instills a sense of optimism about the working week to come. Plans to indulge my body and my mind in fresh air, homemade bread, music and yoga mean I can hope to arrive at Sunday evening with excitement rather than gloom about the possibilities of the next five days.