Sunday seems to have gone on for so many days but rumor has it that tomorrow it will end. There is a confusion of wheelie bins in the street, but the main consensus is that the next bin day will be grey.

When time begins again, I may even write a poem. It has probably been a month since I last wrote anything. This used to worry me, but my poems seem to come like buses – nothing for a while then three at once. They get caught up in some kind of traffic jam of real life events and stuff.

To write, I need a bit of quiet in my head – but not a Sunday quiet. I need the quiet of life going on, just out of earshot. When the bin men come, it will be Tuesday and time will begin again.