When I wake on the couch in my boxer shorts the weekend has begun in earnest, but I return to bed with a sense of sheepish indulgence because for the next 48 hours I don’t have to talk to anyone, face to face, if I don’t want to, and I might not. The sun streams brightly and it has wilted my plants. I chop out the ivy and replace with shop bought pebbles. I comb them with my hands. I smell that hot sun smell and I empty my mind. All that is there is second hand opinion and lust and a smattering of expertise that finds dull traction in an imperfect world full of ego and hands pressing hands.