Sunday Morning Breakfast

Like the weekend, lonely and quiet. The company and comfort of homemade bread doused in honey is a temporary pleasure, but the urge to return to my duvet hide-away and sleep through the duration of this uncomfortable, prickly affliction means it passes by hurriedly, almost unnoticed.


Unable to taste, yet the acidic sweetness of a red grapefruit cuts through the senses, its pungent presence leaving a pleasant reminder on my fingers, massaging a stuffy headache with its strong smell.


Breadcrumbs and peel leave sure reminders that this Sunday has begun, yet all I can taste is a virus at the back of my throat. My curtains dance deviously as the wind whistles though the window, the bathroom fan rattles noisily, weighty clouds loom outside; it seems a perfect excuse to forget the day for now, to hide away and let time pass unknowingly.