© Julia Welstead

5am. My phone emits increasingly aggravating trills until I eventually find the off button. I’m awake anyway, but brain to body communication hasn’t mobilised. There’s a lovely fresh breeze filling the curtains like sailcloth. I hear several feet padding up the stairs and moments later have a wet dog nose shoved joyfully into my face, while small feet scrabble at the bedframe, and a long, low, eel of a body tries to reach up. Hello Maddie, you big hairy mutt, and hello Rolo, you fat little sausage.

Dale is up and about sorting his swimming kit. He is admirably organized, methodical and motivated for this hour of the day. Or perhaps just on auto-pilot. 

We drive through empty streets on side-lights, an autumnal dawn painting rainbow colours through the sky, and arrive a good fifteen minutes early. This is our first morning training session, and we’d allowed 20 minutes for the journey across town, but without traffic it turns out to take half that time. Driving through Edinburgh is beautiful at this tranquil hour. There’s no-one here and Dale doesn’t want to be left alone, so I park up and release the dogs out into the carpark and they gallop off around the wasteland perimeter of the leisure centre, while I stroll, jacket-wrapped against a nippy wind.

As we turn back to the car, there’s a swirl of activity as cars arrive, disgorge their passengers and, slew around and leave. The squad have arrived, Dale gets out to join them and I am free to go.

6am. Down in the woods it is still night. I negotiate the path with faith in fore-knowledge rather than with eyesight. The dogs are off rabbiting: rudely awakening a rabbit community used to serenity until later than this. By half-way up the hill I’m wishing I had one less jumper on, but by the top I’m glad of the wrappings again: it’s a brisk breeze up here. The view across Edinburgh, from the Firth of Forth to the Pentland Hills, is glorious. We trundle up and down woodland paths for an hour, finally calling by at the pond, where Maddie swims, before heading home.

7am. Good morning Fenning, my little sleepy-head, it’s time to get up for school. We snuggle up for a few precious moments before I harden my heart and Fens flips out from under the downie and heads for the shower. There’s only half an hour before I must scoot across town again to collect Dale, and I want to share breakfast time with Fens. While he’s showering I cook up bacon and eggy bread: one lot for him and one wrapped to put in the car for Dale. Over breakfast we talk through Fens’ timetable for today, and he picks out the relevant books from a precarious pile.

8am. Miraculous! I have Dale and we’re home again. Green lights all the way. I had thought I’d be dropping him off at school, but we’re way too early for that. A whole twenty minutes of quality family home time before I herd the boys out of the door for their walk to school. 

9am. I’m showered and dressed and wondering if it’s lunchtime yet. No? Better get some work done then. “Work” is typing up an artist’s diaries for them, and writing my own stuff in between. I have my laptop perched on the kitchen dresser, a high stool in front of it that I sit astride as if I’m riding a horse. I can sit like this for at least ten times longer than I can sit at table, in a chair. If I can ever afford it I’ll buy a proper saddle stool. I came across one of these in an operating theatre last year and it’s the first time I have seriously contemplated stealing, it was so comfortable. But I couldn’t fit it under my coat!