The Sunday Morning That Lasted Forever
It began with birdsong.
Not the kind that screeches you awake, but the kind that tiptoes into your dreams, like a friendly whisper from the trees. The soft chirping of robins and the distant cooing of doves drifted through the half-open window, curling around the curtains like warm breath.
Sunlight, golden and drowsy, spilled onto the floorboards of the little cottage. It painted soft puddles of brightness across the patchwork rug and crept up the armchair where Mr Puddleforth sat, dozing gently with a book open across his lap and a marmalade cat curled on his shoulder like a scarf.
In the kitchen, a kettle began to rumble—not in a hurry, not with urgency—but with the slow confidence of something that knows it will be appreciated when it’s ready. Beside it, a loaf of bread yawned open, still warm from the oven. A pat of butter sat in a ceramic dish, dreaming of being spread.
Outside, the garden stirred. Lavender nodded lazily in the breeze. A bee, whose name was Barnaby, floated from bloom to bloom like a drunk old sailor, humming tunelessly to himself. The clouds above drifted with all the purpose of a day off work.
And everything was unbothered.
No alarms. No emails. No rush.
Just the slow tick of the old grandfather clock in the hall, and the distant chime of the church bells marking the hour with a sound that felt more like a memory than a command.
Young Elsie, who lived next door, padded barefoot into the garden in her pyjamas. She carried a china cup of warm milk and a slice of toast with strawberry jam, and she sat beneath the old apple tree with her feet in the dewy grass. A book open on her knees, she began to read the first line of a story she’d read a hundred times before. The tree listened kindly, as it always did.
And somewhere, just out of sight, perhaps behind the thick hedgerow or at the edge of the woods, something timeless stirred—a sleepy sort of magic, the kind that only shows up when you aren’t looking for it. The kind that slows the ticking of the clock.
The kind that makes you wonder, just for a second, if maybe—just maybe—this Sunday morning might last forever.
And in a way, it did.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 