Monday morning had that heavy, oppressive quality that made you want to crawl back under the covers. The sky was drab and threatening, with clouds so thick they seemed to press down on the house itself. It looked like rain - showers at the very least - though there were a few breaks in the cloud cover that offered the faint hope of a nicer day later on.

For once, I could hear Dave singing in the shower upstairs, his voice carrying through the ceiling in what sounded like genuine cheerfulness. I couldn't make out what he was singing, but it had a bouncy rhythm that seemed oddly at odds with the gloomy morning.

I filled my glass with water and flicked on the kettle. Monday meant cornflakes - back to the reliable start of the working week. The robin was on the bird table again, something clutched firmly in its beak, though I couldn't make out what it was from this distance. After a moment, it flew off toward the silver birch, and I could hear it singing triumphantly from somewhere in the branches, clearly pleased with whatever prize it had secured.

The radio crackled to life as I poured the cornflakes into my bowl, and Gary's voice carried a barely suppressed glee that suggested he was about to share something particularly scandalous.

"Right then, some rather interesting local news this morning," Gary began, his voice thick with mischief. "Local council candidate Bamber Bastion-Smythe was seen running down the high street yesterday afternoon in his birthday suit, being chased by what we can only assume was an irate husband. Mr. Bastion-Smythe has announced he will no longer be standing in the upcoming elections."

I added milk to my cereal, listening as Gary clearly warmed to his theme.

"Now, a video has appeared online, along with several photos that reveal what appears to be a significantly reducing majority," Gary continued, barely able to contain his laughter. "I was sure the swingometer was larger than that! Though I suppose when you're caught with your trousers down, literally, your standing in the polls is bound to suffer!"

You could hear muffled shouting in the background - clearly Kate trying to rein him in - but Gary was on a roll.

"Let's have a bit of music that seems appropriate for the situation, shall we?"

The opening notes of "The Streak" began to play, but were abruptly cut off after just a few seconds.

"Oh, come on!" Gary protested with a laugh. "That song is a classic and so apt for today! We all see you, Mr. Bastion-Smythe! Shame it was such a cold day - your majority really does seem to be shrinking!"

I smirked and shook my head at Gary's relentless pursuit of innuendo, then reached for the radio dial. I'd heard quite enough for one morning. As I turned it off, my eye caught something on the worktop - a strange, colourful stain that definitely hadn't been there yesterday.

I grabbed a spray bottle and cloth from under the sink and set about cleaning it off. One of Dave's late-night culinary concoctions, no doubt. The man had a talent for creating messes that defied both logic and the laws of physics.

I'd just finished wiping down the surface when Dave appeared in the doorway, looking surprisingly chipper for a Monday morning. His hair was still damp from the shower, and he carried what appeared to be a steaming mug of coffee. The rich aroma that wafted across the kitchen, however, suggested it was considerably more than just coffee - the unmistakable scent of Irish whiskey was unmistakable.

He sat down across from me, took a contented sip of his fortified morning beverage, and gazed out at the threatening sky. Judging by the face he pulled, it was maybe a bit of a stronger drink than he thought.

"You know," Dave said, setting down his mug with the satisfied air of someone who'd just solved a major sociological puzzle, "I like to think fads and fashion is a kind of idiot tax, not just on your wealth but also your mental wellbeing. Be yourself, man, not what some trumped-up armpit-looking man tells you to be."

I found myself smirking at the visual of an armpit-looking fashion guru, but still looked across at him and said, "What the fuck, Dave."