This morning, you have forgone the sullen trudge to work, spring – two at a time – up bus stairs, whistle as you settle into a seat at the front with the world’s best view.
The grey skies are wonderful, the traffic a joy, one long beautiful bless it! nose-to-tail going nowhere a symphony of horns and idling engines.
The city has been washed brighter overnight. You smile at strangers, cyclists, policemen, wish chuggers a cheery good day offer your breakfast pastry to a figure curled in a shop doorway.
Cackling, you play hopscotch the length of the high street, vow to laugh at the boss’s lame jokes. Vow to try. Some days, you tell yourself, are truly magical. What times, what times, what times to be alive!