Up and about early in the morning although this is not my usual way on a Sunday. My mother fusses around makes and cooks up oats for breakfast and banks up the fire in the kitchen. She is muttering darkly about having to get up at the c***k of dawn of a Sunday, the one day she hopes and expects to get a lie in bed and an easy time of it. I tell her gently that she didn"t have to get out of bed, I can see to myself and get breakfast easy enough but she just scoffs and says she"d like to see me try. I"m useless at domestic activity and I am lucky that she is there to look after my every need.
"Where are you off to so early anyway?" she asks.
"I"m meeting Rob, my workmate," I tell her. "He wants me to go with him to the market at St. Pauls; they have some new linens from France expected."
