I spend half my life looking out of windows. I can sit up in bed in the morning and look out across the street at trees full of pink blossoms. My tree, the one on my side of the street, is practically the only bare one on the block. It may be dead. I may have a ghost tree, haunting me with spindly waving arms, making dangerous looking shadows at night against the curtains. Maybe Roger Cooke will pull up in a van one day soon to investigate the problem. Maybe I'll invite him in to discuss the feasibility of growing tomatoes in my kitchen, and maybe after a few drinks he'll admit to me that he resents the robot lawnmower, at least a little bit.

This is the longest Sunday of all time. In my head Sunday began when I woke up yesterday morning, and it's only just become Sunday night. It's my favorite day of the week anyway, usually. I did a lot of reading newspapers, and looking out of windows, and scrubbing things, and drinking tea, and pushing furniture around, all while listening to the radio and the rain. I loved it. Last night was the first Saturday in a while that I stayed home. I inadvertantly turned my phone off and missed an invitation that would have led to sort of a perfect night, but it's hard to mind too much when it's been such a nice long day. Now I think it's time to do the crossword on the middle of the living room floor while listening to skipping records.