Sunday mornings were slower, more deliberate. The sky outside was a uniform grey, rain pattering steadily against the kitchen window, and the whole world seemed wrapped in that particular kind of dampness that made you grateful to be indoors. Still 5:30 AM, but today felt heavier, not helped by the overcast sky.

The robin was at the bird table, methodically pecking away at whatever seeds and crumbs remained from yesterday, seemingly unbothered by the light drizzle. Sensible bird.

I filled my glass with water and flicked on the kettle. Sunday meant a full English, the works. Bacon, sausages, eggs, beans, mushrooms, tomatoes, and toast. Enough for Dave too, though getting him up on a Sunday required more than just a hope he’d smell the bacon cooking. I'd have to be strategic about it.

I reached for the cupboard door where we kept the breakfast bowls, and the handle came off in my hand. Again. Dave said he had fixed this last week, which meant he probably had attempted it and done his usual half-hearted job. I sighed, pried the door open, and quickly found the screwdriver in the drawer. A couple of proper twists and the handle was secure. Sometimes you just had to do things properly.

The radio crackled to life as I started laying bacon and sausages in the large frying pan.

"It's Suuuuuuuuuunday!" came Gary's voice, stretched out with his usual annoying enthusiasm. "He always says that," I muttered to myself, cracking eggs into a bowl.

"Except," Gary continued, "there's no sun! Pretty drab day out there and on a bank holiday, who would of thought it folks, but that just means we need to be even more happy to bring the sunshine back!"

I got the beans heating and sliced the mushrooms, keeping half an ear on the radio.

"Now, we've got some rather significant news this morning," Gary's voice shifted to something approaching seriousness. "Our astronomical friends have been burning the midnight oil, and they've managed to locate our wandering comet friend. The exciting news is that its new course appears to show it will come much closer to Earth than originally predicted. We're talking about a spectacular display in the night sky, folks - the kind of thing our grandchildren will be asking us about!"

The kitchen was starting to fill with the rich smell of cooking breakfast. I turned the sausages and checked the bacon. Still not a sound from upstairs, but then Dave could sleep through a brass band on a Sunday morning.

"Of course," Gary continued, "this does mean it's going to pass quite close to our little blue planet, but those in the know assure us there's nothing to worry about. Just a brilliant light show; a chance to see a spectacular once in a life time event!  Not sure if it’ll look as good if the day is like today, but I’m sure the weather will come through for us!"

I opened the kitchen door and wafted it a few times, hoping to encourage the breakfast aromas up the stairs. If that didn't wake Dave, nothing would.

"Right then, let's brighten up this drab Sunday morning by going to the phones! We have Jill on the line from brilliant Basildon! Jill, you rang to talk, you have the ear of the county - what can we do for you on this Sunday of Sundays?!"

"Hi," came a flat, utterly unimpressed voice.

Gary, undeterred by the complete lack of enthusiasm, pressed on. "Hi Jill! How can we help you today?"

"I want a song. I want 'Pumped Up Kicks' by Foster the People."

"Oh, okay," Gary replied, clearly thrown by her directness. "That's a good song, good tune."

"Play the song."

"Right... yes... here it is then."

I shook my head as the distinctive bass line started up, filling the kitchen with its hypnotic rhythm. I let it play for a moment - it was actually quite good - but turned it off just as the vocals were about to kick in. I had breakfast to finish, and Dave to wake up.

The smell was working its magic. I could hear movement upstairs, the sound of someone reluctantly accepting that the day had started whether they wanted it to or not.

By the time I'd plated everything up and moved to the table, Dave appeared in the doorway. His zebra onesie was more disheveled than usual, his hair defying several laws of physics, and he was clutching what appeared to be a delicate china cup filled with pale green tea. The contrast between the elegant cup and Dave's morning appearance was almost comical.

He slumped into his chair, took a careful sip of his tea, and stared out at the rain for a long moment. The robin had finished at the bird table and was now hopping about on the wet lawn, apparently searching for worms brought up by the rain. Dave watched with that familiar expression that meant his Sunday morning philosophical insights were about to emerge.

"You know," Dave said, setting down his teacup with the reverent care of someone handling a precious artifact, "I like to think aliens have been here already, but saw the state of our TV and thought they could just watch better at home."

I paused, a forkful of beans halfway to my mouth.

"What the fuck, Dave?!"