um

day one of another calendar year.
The minute hand on the clock broke off last night whilst setting it.
Sad.
Portentous?
no.
Will fix it today, so that the year will have it's minutes.

The midnight blasting took it's toll on the cat's self assurance,
A destabilised animal, panic strcken withdrawal from the hand that is reached in friendly intent.

Humans! Pagan rituals! Driving out ghosts and devils nobody believes in anyhow. Bangs and sparks.
Terrifying for the poor cat.

Sit alone in the sitting room
it is sunday.
The coffee ritual done, the coffee black and bitter.
People passing in the street outside on the way to church.
very few.
Very few indeed.

But the bells call them.
And the clock now has it's minutes back,
a hand borrowed from another.