Tick tock and then a click clack

it is six fifteen, and there is the sound of a ticking clock, then there is the sound of the sons alarm clock. The clock is still an electrique Brillie, bought from France years ago. A clock that arrived in Germany badly damaged due to the rough handling in the post.

To be alone and relaxed in the own living room in the dark on a Sunday morning.
With a second cup of coffee, made with the Pavoni machine. Black with foam on top.
And it is finished now too.
Now the sons alarm clocks go off again, increasing their aggression with regard to the sleeper. The time of solitary relaxation is drawing to an end, the click and tick of the clocks a reminder of this.
Tick tock and then a click clack every thirty seconds.

There is light from the street lamps outside the window projecting the image of the struts between the panes of glass onto the wall in the unlit room. A whitish light, now that the lamps have been changed to diode technology, the town saving energy. A light sufficient to barely see by, here, at the table. The screen of the newly-repaired laptop computer glows too, showing the words as they are written, letter by letter. The light from the other side, from the kitchen, is yellow by comparison. They are different diodes in the lamps, the lamps that go into the screw-in fittings on the ceiling.
The wife is still sleeping, the cat on her bed, sleeping too, but occasionally opening an eye to check the surroundings. The son has probably fallen asleep again too, his intentions of getting up early having died with the sound of his alarm clocks.

And now it is six thirty seven.
Perhaps there will be time to practice more Portuguese today, perhaps to read some notes in French.
The writing is done in English, and German is spoken every day.
Europe is a strange place made up of barriers, barriers between languages if not between states or between businesses.
It is Sunday, and the time of rest is coming to an end, even today.