Kirsty settled into her steamer chair next to the small pond in her garden. It was late Friday afternoon, and she liked to relax for an hour or so before the turmoil of the weekend burst upon her, normally heralded by one or other of her, now fully-fledged, children bursting through the door with news of their exciting week.
She had finished all of the chores necessary for their home to be as spick and span as it could be for the homecoming. Her husband, Michael, was tapping away at that infernal computer in his study at the front of the house. She had hoped that, after a lifetime as an international salesman, his new job that allowed him more time to work at home would give her more access to him, but the lure of the Windows Desktop had proved as strong as the call of the road.
She loved her garden. It was small but fashioned in her favoured cottage-style over the many years they had lived here. The borders bristled with colour, attracting the many bees and butterflies that flitted between the myriad of blooms competing for their attention.
Of course, it was not all her own work. Michael had stretched the canvas by building the conservatory, laying the patio, digging the pond and then linking it to the small stream via a water feature. But she had flourished the brush that painted the shapes and colours, softening the harsh lines of edging bricks that defined the terraced lawns and borders.
She lay back in the chair and looked at the sky. It was as clear a blue as she had seen all summer, with not a cloud to break the continuity of the backdrop. It was another blank canvas awaiting a picture, she thought, except for the small shape of a hawk circling high above.
