Monday morning. Day is dawning.

Monday morning, 6.50am and I am sitting in bed propped up weakly against my pillows trying to summon the will-power to emerge from between the sheets. I once had a work-colleague who was woken daily by the din of the dawn chorus and sprang into action with the sprightliness of a butterfly flitting from a flower. There are some people like that but I am not among their number. I freely admit that the snooze button on my alarm is the one which I love best. The mattress feels so soft, the sheets feel so cosy and the dark Autumn morning, even one free from cloud, looks very uninviting. The duvet cover and pillow cases are quite new; surely I could be forgiven if I were to give them a proper test? I could send a review in:

"Dear Sir/Madam
"Thank you for permitting me to spend vast sums of money purchasing products from your shop. I'm glad to say that, thanks to the quality of your bedlinen, I was able to sleep for twelve hours solid, thus causing one child to miss pre-school and both children to go without breakfast. I suppose it is possible that the comfiness of the mattress and my own innate laziness may also have been contributory factors.
"Yours faithfully..."  

So much for the sleeping arrangements, what about the occupant? Well, I don't drink alcohol so I can't speak from experience but one imagines that seeing the great Dolittle in the early morn must be similar to the sight of a man recuperating from a bar fight after going on the century's most monumental pub crawl. There would be the same bloodshot eyes, the same disordered hair, the same disinclination for the limbs to do anything expected of them. Right now, my arms are lying bonelessly across the duvet, my eyelids feel as though they are being dragged downwards by strong elastic, my right eye appears to have something sticky in it and there is a distinct muzziness behind my brows. Add in an unshaven face and a voice of gravel and you see before you someone who is guaranteed never to feature in an advertisement for Gillette.

Eventually, the voice of duty and the recollection that vast swarms of humanity will already be awake and at work since 6 o'clock drags me out and downstairs for a wash. On the way I wonder idly why it is that everyone says it takes more muscles to frown than smile. Strange; either my frowning muscles are working overtime without pay or my smiling muscles have gone to sleep. Ah well, it's amazing what a bit of water in the face can do.

Upstairs, I find both children awake. Isaac, as usual, greets me with a beaming smile; it must be lovely to wake up so full of joie de vivre. Graham is more variable in his morning mood but still a good deal more active than his sluggish father. I sometimes wonder how long it will be before they become like me and extracting them from bed before 10 o'clock will only be possible with the aid of powerful explosive. Perhaps never? I hope so.

So dawns your average Monday. It is only after my morning walk to pre-school, Isaac enthroned in the pram and Graham whizzing along on his scooter, that I can properly claim to have woken up. It's a good thing I have. I've got work to do.

Have a good week everyone...