It is eleven am on Saturday morning. I am sat propped up in bed, The Janitor beside me reading, curtains and window open, listening to the sound of birds and passers by. The sun beaming in through the window, reflecting off the plant that resides in the corner of the room.
This morning is the first morning in over fifteen months that we wake alone in The Bungalow, no six am chatter coming from the next room, no milk feeds or bed crasher, bleary eyes or indoor bike riding.
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