There was the not wanting to get up, for a start: <br />The insufferably-insistent, banshee-wail of the alarm <br />Slicing its shrill through my sleep like a searing hot knife through butter; <br />The vague, dull awareness of there having been a dream, <br />Now shrouded by a bleak and impenetrable pea-souper of Dickensian proportions, <br />Forever beyond the reach of recall. <br /> <br />Creeping gingerly, still-half-asleepedly over a pair of Retrievers on the stairs, <br />Toes cursing mildly under their breath at the cold french carrelage <br />And the long-lost intent to replace the slippers the dogs had dismembered. <br />Discovering the storage heaters had not delivered <br />On their remote-controlled, digitally-confirmed promise <br />To charge up cheap overnight and take the edge off the morning chill <br />Habitually creeping its unwelcome way round window and door frames, <br />And that one unit was still stubbornly stone cold, <br />Even if it's circulator fan was faithfully wafting <br />Glacial air to all four corners of the lounge. <br /> <br />The dinner party crockery we blithely decided could 'wait 'til tomorrow', <br />Now making more than a compelling case for our immediate attention: <br />Congealed 'Yeller Fish' leftovers merrily self-supergluing knives
