He came in the afternoon, treading quietly in his Italian leather shoes. The front creases on the trousers of his grey flannel suit were impeccably pressed, and his large silver-plated wristwatch ticked away the seconds with noiseless precision. His wristwatch dared never be unpunctual, and he always came on time – the unwelcome time.
He approached me silently, floating in through the open door of my room, and, nudging me ever so gently in the ribs, leaned over my shoulder and breathed his message into my ear.
The shadows entered in his wake. They sprawled across my bed and slid behind the bookshelves, looking for crackers. But my visitor had to leave, and so did his dim entourage.
I was alone in my room, typing a blog post, when suddenly I started: “Tomorrow is Monday”.