SUNDAY 6AM – COLIN FOSTERI've always been an early riser. “He's up with the lark again,” mother used to shout sarcastically, when she heard me desperately trying to prepare my own breakfast with as little noise as one could manage. Somehow, I seemed to earn a clip around the ear most days for clanking milk bottles or leaving the water tap to drip, despite my valiant efforts not to disturb the sleeping ogre.
Pulling back the curtains to reveal yet another dull and rather dark morning, the sun not having the decency to stir at this early hour, I hear the pitter-patter of raindrops on the guttering above my window. It puts me in mind of my first years at St. Julian's Junior School, when the mere forecast of a storm would be enough to rouse the bullies, chanting at my expense, intimidating me
