On a Monday
The English sausages Nan gave me the last time she came over are sizzling in the frying pan. Small popping sounds from the bacon as I turn it over. The coffee machine is klucking and the flat is filled with the smell of breakfast. I hear Stephen Fry reciting Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets from my computer and it feels like I am in an attic flat in London with majestic windows and smooth but rough wooden floors. Or maybe even somewhere similar to the Burrow where everything is just magical.