Saturday Morning, Not at Work

A rare Saturday morning to myself as I have the day off work. Sat on my bed with the blackout curtains drawn. Alone in the flat as Andy is at work. So quiet here, but in the quiet there are noises. I cannot quite work out what the noise is. It seems to be coming from next door, behind me. A kind of cross between a saw and an operatic voice. All gone silent now, as is often the way when you concentrate on such things.
Trying to listen to 'Suicidal Maniac' by Suicidal Tendencies on Youtube. Remember buying this album back in 1987 from Virgin in Wolverhampton. I played it at my Nan's house and instantly fell asleep. There is a photograph of me somewhere, clutching the record sleeve, happy in oblivion, that my parents sneakily too.
The record, apart from 'Suicidal Maniac' was a huge disappointment.
Such a relief not to be at work this morning.
The flat feels -inexplicable- like Christmas, the taste of those days that precede the day itself, a mixture freshly carpeted hallways and rumours of flat and grey skies outside. Afternoons spent walking over sand dunes at my parents house, nights spent watching M.R.James adaptations on the television.
Strange to think that a month ago we were in a heatwave, and now I can feel December gathering somewhere very close.