And from the moment i woke up i could feel the pressure of Monday. April the first. Spring is far from in the bag and people who do work in banks will feel cheated by this grey cold and dismal day. A bank holiday can mean so much but for me, i have never worked in a bank, it means a slow day, a bridge to normal living. Firle is set upon by walkers and bods in the Ram, this very pretty village is solace and Eden to the visiting chilly winds and such. As i look out of my window i can see the stone cold rasp of fools day, out there the cold and desperate look of April. Inside the heat is up and the toast is on. My Mum and Dad loved a bank holiday, it was a prize for them, a chance to get out in the garden and fool around in the shed. Mum would busy herself around the home and together we would all be as one in the love and safety of home. What would they think of me now, closer to them in years, getting married to Louise who i know they would love to bits. What’s there not to like! I feel like im home too, wind chimes wing and tingle, birds feed on the feeder, bread sits in the tin, coffee in the jar and strains of faint sunshine invite. A lovely long walk around the estate, sunshine and cold winds, the perfect soup. A curry from a local curry house which was very good indeed. That hour we lost, its taking its time to unravel, its not being a friend when the sun gets over the yard arm. Maybe tomorrow. Monday, April fools day. 12 days, two sixes, four threes. 12 steps. 12 days. Twelve monkeys. 12 to a dozen. 12 sleeps.