I like the morning, and when I look back throughout my life I think I always have done, it just never really occurred to me like it does now.
The bedroom in our current home faces east so we get the full on morning experience, especially this time of year when the sun rises over the Warminster Road, forces itself through the blinds and illuminates the room with a warm yellow glow. There’s always a feeling of expectation when I wake up, even with a hangover there’s something to be said for the morning. Swing the legs out of the pit, rest them on the carpet while the bones sort themselves out.
Even in winter, when the mornings are dark and cold, there is always something to remind me about the pleasure of waking up. The sound of hissing as hot water starts to find its way into the radiators, or the click of my young daughter switching her bedroom light on to kick off the days activities, or just kick off.
So why the morning and not bedtime? I’ve never been a great sleeper, and this hasn’t changed with age as I thought it might. Mandy will be asleep within minutes of her head hitting the pillow, snoring gently as I’m just starting to worry about nuclear war or, that my hands are too big. So when the morning comes, and it’s light or time to get up, there’s a sense of relief that the worry is over for another twelve hours. Morning, at last.