When your spouse wakes up before you whether it’s five minutes or an hour it’s tough to ignore the fire crackers strapped to their feet, hands and mouths as they manoeuvre their way through the darkness in an attempt not to disturb the rest of the family.

After several minutes of crumples and fumbles, I politely asked Russell why he had chosen 5:12am to begin construction on his papier mache project in our walk-in closet.  First shredding the paper, then crinkling the tiny balls and placing them on his sculpture. He softly giggled replying he was removing a shirt from a dry cleaning bag. Impossible unless the bag was wrapped in duct tape and he had to wrestle his way into a defensive move, perhaps “the hanger” and tear the shirt from the staples while facing indescribable resistance. How could it not be shrivelled into tiny pieces given the episode I could hear? How is it he’s not covered in blood and bruises from what could only be the worst morning shirt attack in the history of shirt attacks?

He proceeded down the hall in his clean, pressed shirt. Where he found the steel toed boots to tap dance toward the door is anyone’s guess.

I’ll see you at midnight.