Furiously scanning about 400 pages worth of signalling course material (I'm still doing it now) at half past 6 in the morning, I hear my four month old daughter crying, which is followed soon enough by my girlfriend stumbling down the stairs, so as to make up a bottle of milk.
It's the hair. I've always liked watching her wake up, usually a long process in which she gradually realises that a new day has dawned and sleep won't be coming back for a considerable period of time.
However, this morning her thick, black, frizzed hair is bursting from her head like an untamed hedge. Almost a bomb-burst of hair, you might say. The effect is accentuated by a single, tiny white hair bobble, clinging on to a few strands of hair on the right side of her head, as if to say, "well, I couldn't manage it all, but I've got what I can, and by God, I'm going to hang on to it."
She says she's getting her hair done at the weekend.