He wakes up. He feels close to a reasonable good mood. It is like something has lifted the great mountain that was resting on his mind-shoulders. There is not mountain on his real shoulders, just pyjamas. Like Peace declared suddenly the battle is over and no reason is given as to why it began to the soldier in the trench or why it ended at this particular moment and at this particular time. He refuses to connect this to Facebook re-entry and realises after some thought that it was just a coincidence. An amusing and possibly tragic commingling that may have shot him down into the deep dark pit of hopelessness had he dwelt on it any further. He eats a bagel. He has a coffee. He reads. He showers. He feels like Sherlock Holmes full of energy having breakfast at 221b Baker Street after weeks on a heroin bender. He walks to the bus stop. He notices an off-season Father Christmas wrestling with the trestle of a bird bath. Off-season Father Christmas is victorious and fixes the large pieces back together. Then he disappears off through the hedge into another garden. Did off-season Father Christmas merely enter that garden to help the birds bathe? There is no answer to this question because walking to the bus stop continues and the scene is left unfinished and mysterious. He sees a couple on a walk with umbrellas open. There is no longer any rain and the sidewalk is drying. He does not know why they are still wrestling with the umbrellas even as the wind threatens to invert them. The normal human pride of not admitting there is no longer a need to do a thing perhaps that is the case but again he cannot be sure because he doesn’t engage the couple in conversation and he keeps on walking. There is a familiar man on the bus wearing a pink sombrero. He wonders if sombrero means hat in Spanish. He then wonders if they have special names in Mexico and not just “hat”. He will look it up and learn something new. He has nearly done all of his laundy, something he considers is a good thing. He has nearly tidied his whole room which is also a good thing. This is the action of an adult. This is the work of an independent man who doesn’t need to be married, or codelled by a mother figure. This is someone who is going places and doing things. He gets into work and he sharpens some pencils with a very loud and inefficient mechanical pencil sharpener. It is possibly the worst invention ever because it takes longer to sharpen pencils than with a normal pencil sharpener and it also hurts the person sharpening the pencil because the extended end of the pencil has to be pushed in hard to make the mechanical teeth activate and this means either the fingers are rubbed and chafed or the palm of the hand is reddened. It is truly an awful contraption but he remember being fascinated by them as a child and there was one in the first school he remembers attending that no one was allowed to use. It just sat on the table which was a mile high looming over the whole class like an Easter Island Statue into the mouth of which one would push a pencil as sacrificial offering. His memory is flawed but this is what he recalls. He feels sick later on in the day and he realises this is probably because he only ate candy today and drank coffee and had no lunch. This is because he is an adult. He is an independent man. He is someone who is going places and doing things. He lies in his clean bed with his clean sheets and falls asleep with the knowledge that tomorrow, for him, will begin when he wakes up.