will be crooning over the pictures in their dotage.

 This morning is a splendid awakening to silence and sunlight. There is no more than the sounds of birds and the heavy metal of church bells. There is hazy light from outside and it is a warm May the first, cool air coming in through the open verandah door and not the biting chilly pain of winter. Make breakfast to the sound of the son's alarm clock, a thing that he had forgotten to switch off. It is a holiday today, he need not go to work.

Take breakfast up to the bedroom, this has become a habit now, and turn on the computer. Not even the American papers do any reporting today, there is no mail. There are only the remaining pictures from the concert on Friday night, the night that turned into such a gruesome event by degrees and piece by piece.

There were no pictures taken of the stony-faced audience who had paid a regular entrance fee to watch a private talent show with proficient professionals doing the background sounds. This was out of respect, neither were pictures taken of the people dancing in the aisles, the sixty year old's imitating teenagers. Out of respect for the undead and regard for the survivors.

Close the screen and put away the pictures. The job will be paid for, perhaps; and perhaps somebody will be crooning over  the pictures in their dotage.

Return to breakfast and the irritating lack of news. The birdsong outside has been replaced by the more heavy-duty cooing of pigeons and the sun has climbed higher into the sky. Let's do the best for this first day of May.