green telephone

 The old dial up telephone in the hallway is ringing, and it is eight in the morning. Still in bed, listen to the imperative clamour of the mechanical bell in the green plastic enclosure. Get up, stand barefoot on the cold flagstones of the hallway and pick up the receiver. 

"Good Morning"
It is some young voice saying his name indistinctly and asking for the son.
"just a moment"

go into the sons room, see that he has just awakened, and tell him of his phone call. He mumbles something and makes his way to the telephone in the hallway. Hear him talking to his friend, think that that is the only way to reach him when the computers are switched off and the pandemic is making its way across the continent. The mutating virus travelling in waves. The British mutation of the Wuhan virus, the bug that has calmed half of Europe.

After the son has finished his telephone call go into the bathroom and shave. The bathroom is uncomfortably cold, the plastic clogs prevent direct contact between the bare feet and the cold tiled floor. The plastic head holding the razor blades breaks off as it is being led over the face, feel the nick as it cuts the skin. Replace the head with a new one, and the smooth action of those new sharp blades is a delight.

Afterwards, return to the bedroom, then go to the kitchen, hug the son who has the misfortune to be just there at that point in time and make a cup of coffee.