Why I don’t live on Easy Street
I recall, as a boy, lying in bed late in the morning, with the bright morning sunshine pouring in through the windows, warm, relaxed and perfectly comfortable. Dozing and waking, dreaming in that delicious state of being half-asleep and half-awake. Passing hours like that. Glorious hours. Occasionally my dad would yell from another room to enquire if I’d got up yet (my mum didn’t bother: she knew the answer). The day drifted away. Maybe I’d go out later, meet friends,