This morning around 5am I woke to the sound of the most beautifully complicated birdsong. It filtered into my sleeping pill addled mind and sounded downright unbelievable. It was like the birdsong you’d imagine hearing on another planet, too extraordinary for common Colchester. They sang so clearly and sweetly, with so many ups and downs and trips and loop the loops but continually joining up together again. I wondered what the beautiful singers looked like, every colour of the rainbow, dusky grey, mother of pearl and pure gold feathers light as air. In my confused and momentarily pain-free state I deduced I had finally died and this was the beginning of my heaven. I was too focused on trying to catch every note of the birds to meditate on this in depth, but a few fleeting thoughts of regret flitted through my head. The book I’m writing that I’m desperate to finish, and my son and his need for me. Thinking of my son was like a call to arms, the ever present thorn in my right eye asserted itself and I was yanked out of my blissful dawn hallucination.