Bank Holiday Monday had its own particular atmosphere. The house felt different when you knew most of the country was still tucked up in bed, enjoying their extra day off. The rain had stopped overnight, but heavy clouds still hung low, threatening more to come. Still 5:30 AM for me though; routine was routine, bank holiday or not.

The robin was perched on the garden fence, and this time it had what looked like several small worms dangling from its beak. Breakfast for the family, perhaps? There was something rather touching about watching it, knowing it was probably heading back to feed hungry chicks in a nest hidden away somewhere in the garden.

I filled my glass with water and flicked on the kettle. Bank holiday meant sausage sarnie with fried tomato. The shower was already running upstairs. Dave had once told me he "doesn't believe in bank holidays," which didn't stop him from being a lazy whatsit all day despite getting up bright and early like it was any other Monday.

The radio crackled to life as I started the sausages in the pan, their familiar sizzle mixing with the sound of distant thunder rumbling overhead.

"It's bank holiday, daaaaaaaaay off!" Gary's voice practically exploded from the radio, so loud I nearly dropped the spatula. "Well, weather's going to be thunder, boo!" he continued, his enthusiasm undimmed by the prospect of more rain. "But yay for bank holidays, love a good day off, not that I’m off, apart from me and a load of other hard workers out there, I hope you lazy lot are enjoying your lay-in! Actually, get up and listen to me or I'll be fired! Haha... I won't be fired, will I Kate?"

There was a brief pause, and you could almost hear Gary's sudden panic at his own joke.

"Actually," he continued his voice brightening as he spotted salvation, "we have a caller on the line! It's Anne from Southend. How's the beach today, my Anne?"

"Well," came a distinctly posh voice, sounding rather put off by Gary's overly familiar tone, "it's rather wet, obviously. Though I must say, I've always loved watching the storms when I was a child and still find the rain rather relaxing."

I sliced the tomatoes and added them to the pan alongside the sausages. The kitchen was starting to smell properly like a bank holiday breakfast.

"My mother would always put on 'Flowers in the Rain' by The Move during storms," Anne continued, her voice softening with the memory. "Could I have that, please?"

"Aww, that's sweet," Gary replied, his voice taking on an almost sentimental tone. "For Anne and her mother, wherever she is."

There was a pause before Anne's voice came back, rather matter-of-factly: "Oh, she died last year."

Gary's cough was audible over the radio before the opening notes of the song began to play.

I buttered the bread and assembled my sandwich, then moved to the table as the gentle melody filled the kitchen. Looking out at the garden while listening, my eyes caught on the kitchen window. The glass was looking decidedly grubby, probably needed a proper clean. I'd been putting it off for too long.

I reached for the notepad we kept by the fruit bowl and scribbled "wash windows" on my list of things to do today. While I was at it, I crossed off "look for new job", that could wait another day.

I prepared the cafetière and poured myself a coffee, adding just a splash of milk. The familiar ritual felt oddly comforting.

The song was actually rather lovely, the kind of gentle tune that made you think of childhood and simpler times. I let it play while I ate, watching the robin hop along the fence with another precious cargo of worms. But as the song started to wind down, I reached for the radio dial. Enough nostalgia for one morning.

I'd just finished my sandwich when I heard the familiar sound of Dave coming down the stairs.

He appeared in the doorway looking surprisingly fresh and alert, his zebra onesie properly arranged and his hair still damp from the shower. He looked ready for a day of accomplished laziness on the couch. In his hands was what appeared to be an ornate glass mug filled with a deep red liquid that smelled faintly of berries and pomegranate.

He slumped into his chair, took a careful sip of his exotic tea, and stared out at the threatening sky for a moment. The robin had disappeared, presumably off to deliver breakfast to its family. Dave watched the empty garden and smirked, that meant his philosophical revelations were about to emerge.

"You know," Dave said, setting down his glass mug with the careful precision of someone handling liquid gold, "I like to think we don't actually have a brain. They just tell us that so we think we're clever and not all just doing mad stuff all the time."

I sigh...

"What the fuck, Dave?!"