A guilty secret

It is a normal summer-holiday morning.

She presses the snooze button, silencing the happy bluster of Evan Davis’ voice.

Once, twice, three times; she plays snooze roulette until the voice that emerges is smug
and so measured it could only be pondering over the Thought for the Day.

‘Fuck off’, she whispers,
switches off the radio
and pads down the hall to switch on the kettle.

She brings her coffee back to bed,
reads eight minutes of Daphne du Maurier,
drinks in the coffee,
reaches for the laptop.

Checks newsfeeds (still no gold for Team GB), checks email.
Checks blog reader, checks blog visits.
For a laugh, checks OU – as if the result is going to be three days early.

‘Your result is now available’ flashes up.

She clicks the link and is taken to a page with a big red word at the top: distinction.

She smiles.
She wants to go tell people.

She stops smiling; she has no-one to tell.

Writing is her guilty secret and mostly she likes it that way.

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