Clocks back.Thermostat-a-go-go.
Six inches of snow (would I lie?)
But no Christmas-Tree Man, punting near the Strawberry-Hut on the A143 near Gillingham.
Amidst this confusion, my body-clock looks for clues.
My kitchen digital radio, now married to an earpiece, itself divorced from my bedside transistor.
My slumber, dot-full of waking boundaries, but bereft of oh-so many wickets.
Sleep caught in patches, the pillow-slips making a 3rd man of my wife.
How long have I been awake?
And where is Kevin Pietersen?
I fall into unconsciousness to congratulate the boys, but they are already on their way to the city of churches. It's Monday I think.
We need milk.
