I am lying on the hump in the middle of the futon; it’s softer than the two hollows carved out on either side. Maybe it is time for a new futon. Or a real bed. But I love its Japanese size and the feeling it gives of never having quite grown up or settled down. I turn onto my left side and I am face to face with the soft golden snowflakes of mould that are pushing their way through the paint on the wall next to my bedside table; they match my yellow eye mask with the words ‘cat nap’ on it.

When I turn onto my left side I see my underwear on the clothes rack. They are waiting for me to get up and shower and choose one of them to go on an adventure with.  In the meantime their bright colours seem to have scared my little sheep bag. I wish I had the energy to tell them to use their indoor voices.

And in the corner sit my partner’s clothes, airing. They look like a rag doll version of him, flopping on the chair.

The cupboard door is open and the winter woollens peek out at me. Packed away for the summer, they wonder why I didn’t go out today; all afternoon, they could hear the children splashing as they jumped off the pontoon into the aquamarine waters of the bay, and the currawongs calling, above the oblivious chatter of the parrots.

But now it is night, and having kept myself company with silly thoughts and minutiae, the pain and the day have both receded, and I  am ready to curl myself carefully off the bed, find my thongs and wander into the world again.