This morning, I’m pulling a Winston Churchill and writing in bed. I’ve already had a good long session of journal writing and have moved on to the blog, all without stepping a foot downstairs.  

True, it’s not very professional. I wouldn’t want to be in a Zoom meeting right now. And it may not be the best posture for the back. But it seems like the epitome of luxury, to not have to rush up or rush out, to take my time getting used to the morning, to sidle into the day from a reclining position. 

But I can hear Copper downstairs, his nails clicking on the floor. He’ll want to go out. And come to think of it, a cup of tea would be nice, maybe even some yogurt. 

I’m wise enough to know that when thoughts of food and drink start intruding, it’s time to pop up, get dressed, and start the vertical part of the day. 

(One potential problem with writing in bed: being unable to read what you wrote when you were there.)