Day four of housesitting the place which I fondly called home for over two decades.

This morning, upon swiping aside the bedroom curtains, a landscape of grey mist greeted my astigmatic eyesight. These low clouds diminishing both visibility and initially the vigour to go downstairs and face another repetitious day in lockdown.

However, I remained disciplined and listened to the good angel on my left shoulder, proceeding to make my bed and head kitchen ward for a breakfast smorgasbord of marmite laden crumpets.

Having slept pleasantly in what was once my marital bed, I concluded the art of slumber is significantly easier without the worry of being smothered by a pillow as you sleep.

Pre-separation, my relationship was fraught, leading to frequent episodes of confrontational dialogue and general discord. As I recall, a juncture of my life where sleep felt like it came with similar jeopardy to having a shower at the Bates Motel, or a night on Elm Street.

My departure from these hallowed chambers becoming necessary in the middle of 2019. A situation consequential of my now-estranged wife purchased a Jason Voorhees hockey mask and chainsaw. The last thing I needed so shortly after my heart attack in January that year……. I wouldn’t care but the cheeky mare used my money to buy the chainsaw’s petrol!

These days, though, sitting in solitude with my laptop, a far greater calm envelopes me. A serenity imparted from being significantly more comfortable in my skin than when last living here.

This providing a tranquility of soul the very anti-thesis of that experienced during previously faced toxicity and negativity. The former ambience which ultimately led to yours truly departing this domain to live at my mothers place.

Don’t get me wrong, existing within the matriarchal gaff is no bed of roses for me, or indeed my mum. Our similar temperaments ensure we’re only a misplaced comment away from a confrontational exchange of some nature.

Living at mater’s south west Leeds home, as opposed to east of this grand metropolis, isn’t ideal. Middle-aged and living at Maggie’s certainly wasn’t one of the aspirations I’d held for this juncture of my life.

God bless her, though, she’s put a roof over my head for over a year. Occasionally, that head feels as though it’s gonna explode under that roof, by I’m really appreciative of her support, and the more positive atmosphere she projects.

To be fair to my mum, it’s probably as stressful for her putting up with my capricious behaviour. Erratic thought and deed which even irks me at times, never mind my octogenarian forebear.

Consequently, I endeavour to remember the very simple advice my sister Helen provided our matriarch after I’d upset Maggie during a heated disagreement…… “Just tell him it’s your bloody house, mum!” my sibling’s thought-provoking words of wisdom.

As an aside, I must go for a walk today. The meander of these east Leeds streets I’d planned for yesterday never materialised. Fixing the TV’s sound bar, tightening a loose kitchen tap and undertaking software installs on my cable box infringing upon time scheduled for a stroll.

I’m becoming intensely aware I need to address my fitness regime. This unhealthy lifestyle becoming a real concern; especially upon realising I’m even starting to do DIY jobs to get out of exercising.

I watched excitable fitness guru Mr Motivator on the TV this morning. The over the top fellow attempting to gee up those quarantined at home with a few exerting moves and raucously delivered commands.

Witnessing this didn’t motivate me to exercise. However, it did make me get off my lazy arse to turn the telly off!….. Small steps, as they said.