early early

this is not a Saturday, The head feels as if it is shaped like a seeding dandelion, with all of the little parachutes extended, ready to spread its seeds there were the wind will take them. It is an ugly feeling and the whistle in the right ear does not make things any better. It is silent in the sitting room, reading for hours because sleep will not come.
Insomnia.
Read a book, an easy book.
And a sore throat.
The cold has struck, The nose is dripping like an old tap, a faucet.
And horribly awake, listening to the Brillie clock send a signal for it's non existent children.
Every thirty seconds.
+ and then -
30 sec
- and then +
It has been running for a year now.
And it will go on until the C cell battery looses its charge.
It was the timekeeper for a french factory once, and now it is decoratively, accurately telling time in  a kitchen in Germany. No children clocks, no slaves. No real work. A pensioner.

This will no longer proceed  in this manner.
It is a Saturday, but it is not one of those Saturdays to be dreamt of, one of those that childhood memories are made of.
People pass by on the streets outside, talking. Male voices. Homegoers, most likely.
Otherwise dead silence.
Even saint martins clock sleeps at this time