the Russian mercenaries are revolting, and nobody really seems to know why

 It is six twenty six and the coffee has been drunken and the eggs on toast eaten. That is the beginning of the day, a morning in comfortably cool grey, the windows open and the birds twittering outside. There is no mail in the inbox yet, it being Saturday. The American news will arrive time shifted, the home of the New York Times had midnight half an hour ago.

Now the bells ring twice for half past six.

The crockery is downstairs again now, in the dishwasher

The bells ring thrice, it is the German way, this signifies three quarters of the hour. A quarter to seven. It is time to take the pills, and hopefully there will be no confusion today. Outside, from one of the neighbours houses, there is the regular sound of snoring and the occasional cough.

There is news, the Russian mercenaries are revolting, and nobody really seems to know why.