Workday Weekday

As dawn touched eyelids through a semi-transparent curtain that was morning, a misty mind unfolded, slowly, memories of yesterday, thoughts for today. Lying comfortably beneath a cover that was once a dozen swans, she, after some decisions and more dozing decided to lift herself and begin her days events. After bathroom chores and much gazing into the mirror she wanders down a half decorated staircase, enters her kitchen, examines a sink that needed cleaning yesterday but can wait until tomorrow. A mug of tea, the housewifes saviour is sipped with a disapproval of taste. Next task of every weekday morning is the pressing of not quite clean jeans, well worn working shirts, hankerchiefs, frilly pants and anything else that was tubbed or scrubbed the day before. A sip of now lukewarm tea. A sharp yell that vibrates to yhe top of the stairs... 'Daniel, get up'. A second attempt to rouse her son never fails. 'Wash yourself good', she yells in her cup. Downstairs comes son. 'Hello, Dan'. 'Hello, Mum'. 'I'll have some toast without much butter, plenty of marmalade, though' he mutters. Some scrapes the half burned toast. 'My fault again'she has to boast. Son talks wide eyed and alert, mum still half asleep, inert. Eventually, son departs for school, she must also work to rule. So, she does a final chore before she passes through the door, an opening that is a new working day.