“How pleasant it is to receive the day in this manner,” cried my father one morning, whilst he was conveying me to work, and when the threadbare van was rattling to a jerky standstill along Hillview Avenue, as I wove five fingers through my raven, lacklustre, and intricately knotted hair, to detangle without success.
To me it emerged that there was no discording upon such a meticulous observation, one which I should have otherwise sensed naught about had my interlocutor rather mentioned something else in which I see no likelihood of partaking. For when I inhaled abundantly from the open windows, so as to prompt a whiff of bougainvilleas goodness to waft through my nostrils and windpipe and into my lungs, it promised well, of many gleeful prognostics of a fruitful Wednesday.
“Aye, Papa,” I corroborated with great eagerness, a distinct anomalousness in comparison with my penchant for pulling a grumpy countenance in the early mornings, when busywork ought to be attended to in an austere office, “I am quite of your opinion, to be sure.”
At length the cerulean van inched towards Hillview Terrace, where I quitted the vehicle, uttered my thanks, and frolicked away to my nine-hour job.