8.40. AM. The St Catherine's harbour bus has just raced passed our house under the dark grey sky blanketing the rumble of commuter traffic. Even the smell of fresh piping hot coffee fails to encourage me to sit up in bed and face the day ahead. Only wrapping my body in the beige fleeciness of warmth that is my ancient man-size dressing gown do I rouse myself and stair around my shadowy bedroom. Edward has taken to sleeping half the night on the sofa bed in my art studio which is a relief from his cough allowing me to flap the duvet at will without angry grunts from him when the necessity arises for cold air to sooth the fire burning in my ankles and knees during sleep.
STAR WITH ANGEL
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