By the middle of the first week, I had a routine. If I put out what I could for breakfast after tea the evening before, I could sleep for an extra fifteen minutes the next day. I showered in my van and dressed in the coolest clothes I could find—shorts, T-shirt, and runners. Runners, because on the first day I had slipped on the greasy kitchen floor in my flimsy sandals. My shoulder-length hair fell down my back and the bathroom mirror in the van told me there were now several more greys peeking through the chestnut-brown. I pulled it onto the top of my head and fastened it into a bun. Make-up was ludicrous in the sweat and rush of the kitchen.
With a cup of good coffee in hand, I walked the few metres to the kitchen.
On days when the routine was under control, I began staying in the she
