Dragged from the arms of Morpheus by some variety of mentally defective bird that appears to see 3.30am and pitch blackness as the natural time to warble cheerfully outside my bedroom window I was naturally far from plussed.
Unable to return to sleep I watched through the hours of the night until the roseate fingers of Dawn (aren’t red fingers a sign of liver disease?) crept over the horizon.
Revolted by the analogy of creeping red fingers, I peered through the curtain to see the sky incarnadined by the rising sun and I sprang forth to capture the moment on my camera, tripping heavily over my sleep apnoea machine and severely bruising my knee on the rococo inspired occasional table.
The collision had knocked my Art Deco Bakelite cuff link box in the shape of a top hat onto the floor. By the time I had recollected my exquisite boutons de manchette from amongst the discarded socks, the sun had risen too high to make the rude awakening worthwhile.
I stood outside, gazing at the rapidly vanishing “shepherds’ warning” and after a desultory attempt at capturing with my camera a precocious daisy in the half light, staggered back to the coffee machine, snapping this picture of the ominous winter sky behind the disappointingly bare lemon tree, obviously blasted by the extreme Perth winter.
No one knows what I suffer!
(Well you might have a teensy inkling if you managed to get this far!)