Six thirty on the dot.

Frank Headley is trying hard to concentrate as he puts his dressing gown on and shuffles downstairs. A few days ago, he misjudged the last step, slipped and banged his head against the hallway door, a lesson learned. At the bottom of the stairs, their old grandfather clock clonks away the time, a double chime the for half hour; six thirty. For the last thirty years the clock has been a constant companion. He extracts a newspaper from the jaws of the letterbox and glances at the headlines, front and back pages, before he enters the kitchen. Walking over to the sink, he turns on the cold tap and lets it run for five seconds, then collects the kettle and tips the dregs down the sink, turns the cold water tap back on and fills the kettle to about the halfway point. He stops to look out of the kitchen window whilst absent-mindedly wiping down the kitchen counter, before getting back to the task in hand and plugging the kettle in. Frank pushes down the on switch and wonders what he should do next.

There is a gentle nuzzle on the back of his right calf, accompanied by an impatient purr. He grunts and smiles as he opens the back door and lets Cat the cat out into the back garden, then he walks back through the kitchen into the lounge. He pulls back the curtains and sighs at the dull overcast sky hanging above him. Studying the meaningless clouds for a while his mind goes blank before he hears the kettle boiling and scurries back to the kitchen.

Without thinking, Frank places two mugs on the counter, one white, one orange, dropping two tea bags into the white mug and just one bag in the other. He pours on the boiling water and covers the mugs with their matching covers depicting the Eifel Tower, a fortieth anniversary present from Mary’s sister. The front door bell rings, jolting him back to the present. Instinctively, he shouts upstairs, “It’s OK Honey. I’ll get it.”

The postman does not meet Frank’s eyes as he passes him a large bundle of cards, secured by a pink rubber band. For some strange reason the sight of the rubber band takes Frank’s breath away.

“This one’s recorded delivery, you need to sign for it.”

Although he has been delivering to this house for over ten years and they have for a long time been on first name terms, Frank notes that the postman has refrained from calling him by his Christian name. Ten years ago, he would have been ashamed to answer the front door wearing his dressing gown and decides that tomorrow he will get fully changed before he comes downstairs.

Frank fumbles in his pocket for a pen, which is still in place from last night’s crossword, scribbles his signature, reluctantly takes the letter, turns and closes the door behind him. As an afterthought he shouts at the closed door, “Thank you, John.”

Frank returns to the kitchen, placing the unopened post – which he intends to ignore for an hour or so – onto the table and walks over to the counter. He takes the single tea bag from the orange mug and pours in a generous portion of milk, sips it and is satisfied that it is suitably cool. Into the white mug with two tea bags, he drops three generous spoonsful of sugar and the merest drop of milk. He lifts the white mug with his right hand before taking the cooler mug in his left hand, and then proceeds to trudge up the stairs, noting the time on the grandfather clock as he passes. Fourteen minutes have passed since he got out of bed. He pauses at the landing window and looking out over the garden, and notes that the grass needs cutting. Maybe the smell of freshly mown grass will lift his spirits? The thought evokes a sigh; not today but possibly later in the week. He turns away from the window and continues down the corridor to their bedroom at the rear of the house. He gently pushes the door open with his foot and creeps in.

Frank walks around the bed and gingerly places the orange mug on a small rubber mat on the left-hand bedside cabinet, re-encircles the bed, places his mug on a similar mat situated on his cabinet, and climbs into bed before realising he has not pulled the curtains. He grunts with impatience about having to get out of the bed again, his routine has been disturbed. After pulling the curtains back, he is disappointed to find that the room is not much brighter than before, but it is still warm enough to take off his dressing gown, which he methodically folds and places on the bedroom chair.

After stacking three pillows up behind him, Frank crawls into bed, and sits quietly for the next few minutes, sipping at his sweet yet tasteless drink. The slurping noises he makes somehow seem to comfortably gel with the distant sound of the grandfather clock ticking away downstairs, which is disturbed by Mrs Ansell as she loads up her SUV and wheelspins down the road. When his tea is finished, he closes his eyes and for a while thinks of nothing before, he glances at the digital clock by his side; it is now thirty-one minutes since he got out of bed. Frank closes his eyes once again and lets his mind wander as he pictures the bedroom, he has woken up in for the last thirty-one years. He can see himself sitting upright in the bed, hair ruffled, a stubbly chin and eyes closed, with an empty mug resting on his bedside cabinet. Without thinking his left hand moves over to the other side of the bed and feels nothing. He decides to keep his eyes closed for a few minutes and try and forget next to him on the bed is an empty space, and beyond that on the other cabinet sits a cold mug of tea. Untouched.