A cockerel’s dawn crowing had woken me from my slumbers. This glorious morning sound was powered by an AA battery
and delivered through a tinny speaker, and was brought about by my setting my alarm clock the previous evening,
rather than, as is the case in our avian friends, raised levels of testosterone and sunlight.
It is fair to say that my bedroom is a testosterone and sunlight-free zone at present.
But winter does pass, I told myself—remember that, Eleanor.
Glen was slumped over my feet on top of the duvet, keeping them warm as she did her best to ignore the alarm.
Excited at the prospect of the day ahead, I dressed in a new white blouse, a new black skirt, black tights and the boots
I’d got a while ago for a gig I should never have gone to. I looked smart, practical, normal.
Yes, I was going back to work. Years ago, one of the foster families I lived with had taken me,
alongside their own children, on a “back-to-school shopping trip.”
All three of us were allowed to choose new shoes and a new schoolbag, and were kitted out with a brand-new uniform
(even though my skirt and blazer from the previous year still fit perfectly well).
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