I thought it was an hour later than it is, but it's too late. Or it's too early. One of the two.
The sky is a fantastic blue, unglazed with pollution.
Birdsong rings across the back gardens, treble and clear, no longer engulfed by traffic noise.
The day's wobbly timetable stretches out, begging for structure and being refused.
I'm listening to Johny Brown's Bad Punk show from last Friday in this spare hour: it is a welcome chance to catch up on some underground culture.
Week after next, we were to have played three gigs: Brighton, Bristol and The Betsey.
Johny had written a clutch of fantastic songs and I had learned how to accompany him.
I have lockdown hair, long and tangled, just like everyone else. There is no need for new clothes, cosmetics, or comparison: each bubble is aware of the next door bubble and the bubble after that.
We pretend we are all thinking the same way but how do we know, under the layers of bravery, anger, fear and hope?
We are all afraid, especially the people who say they aren't.
Outside, rare wildflowers burst joyously into bloom, hedges and trees explode in a riot of untamed green. Like shooting stars, tiny birds dart across paths below human head level from nest to bush and back again. They have their world back, temporarily.
People amble: life is circular. Round to the park, and back again.
Stand in the queue, and back again.
Into the kitchen, and back again.
Up to bed at night, back down again in the morning.
We are waiting.