She blinked the sun out of her eyes as it found it’s way in through the chink in the curtains. She never could sleep through sunrise. Must get that loft conversion finished. Then she could have a proper blackout blind on a nice skylight.

Despite it being far earlier than anyone should be up, he was already gone. She could tell, firstly by the lack of his breath on her neck and his arms around her, but also by the note on her nightstand. Well, not so much a note as a vague drawing of a cup and saucer, a downward arrow and a kiss. Tea downstairs.

She stretched and swung her legs over the side. Not one for slippers her feet found the smooth wooden floorboards as she slipped yesterday’s discarded hoody over her head. Dressing gowns just aren’t as convenient or comfy she had decided.

As she skipped down the stairs she started to think of all the things she could do today. A Sunday. Full of potential. But first, tea. Everyone knows you can’t start a productive Sunday off without a tea.

As promised, there was her favourite mug sitting on the side with a flask next to it. He always took a flask when he was working overtime, it made sense to make her one too. And this way, it didn’t matter when she got up, there would be hot tea waiting for her, as if he’d just made it.

She poured a cup, added milk and a sugar (it was Sunday after all) and set off to the garden. Whenever possible, starting the day in the garden was her preferred way. Especially this early, when it felt like no one else in the world was awake.

She listened to the birds chirping and watched a bee lazily bob in and out of the fox gloves as she sipped her drink. Instead of a proper breakfast she picked at the strawberries and raspberries. And then found herself eating fresh peas. Maybe not a traditional morning meal but one that made her happy. They could have something together later on when he got back. Maybe pancakes, or scrambled eggs on toast.

Having drained her mug she made her way back into the kitchen, poured the second cup from the flask and found her apron. She clicked the oven on and started rummaging in the cupboards. She found everything she needed, goodness knows she wouldn’t let herself run out of anything. You never know when the urge to rustle something up will strike and it had been known in this household for guests to arrive, there to be no cake in the tin and 30 minutes later fresh butterfly buns to be presented. Cookery doesn’t have to be fancy, just good. She plugged in her iPod, selected the playlist called ‘Favouites’ and began.

Over the next couple of hours, a sponge cake had been baked and was now soaking up lemon syrup, bread dough was proving nicely ready to be plaited into rolls for tomorrow’s packed lunches and a giant pan was bubbling away on the hob. Jam. She had always wanted to make jam. And now she could.

She was so immersed in her own little world of bubbling fruit, and the music was turned up so loud that she felt she could sing along at full volume too, that she didn’t hear the gate. She didn’t hear the door. She didn’t hear the thud of his work bag being dropped to the floor. The first she knew was his arms around her waist.

She spun round in a mild panic. The kitchen was a state. She’d meant to clean up but she had lost track of time. She was going to make the pancake batter, or at least get some toast ready but alas, she hadn’t managed any of this.

“Busy morning?”

“I’m sorry… I lost track of time.. I-“

“Is that cake?”

“What? Oh, yes. But I was going to tidy up and make breakfast and-“

“Cake for breakfast it is. Come on, take this out to the garden. I’ll put the kettle back on.”


You can have cake for breakfast on Sundays.