Perhaps.

A snow white sky dappled with gold leaves greeted me when I opened my eyes this morning, all the proof I needed that the drive to Mum’s for Sunday eggs would require a battalion of woolly jumpers, mohair scarves and  cerise leather  gloves. And so we went, dinosaur bobble hat pulled low over Finley’s curls and  the rousing noise that is our car song  (Maximo Park’s  The Coast Is  Always  Changing…I am  young and I am  LOST, every sentence has it’s COOOOOOST!) screeched at the top of croaky voices and deliciously accompanied by a bit of four year old head banging…
Morning parental pampering enjoyed  we returned home with an armful of  newspaper wrapped dark  green cabbage- as beautiful as  any other Winter bouquet-and tucked our frozen toes into slipper socks warmed on the radiator in our absence:- warm feet all the better to  suffer cold lino  while we whipped up the easiest , cosiest chocolate fudge in the world  (add one small bag of chocolate chips to a tin of condensed milk, simmer gently till the chocolate is thoroughly melted and pour into a tin to cool) and filled the kitchen with the scent of steamy hot lavender as we laundered my snuggly nights dressing gown, (a bundle of white fuzz I cannot endure until frost decorates my windows towards the end of November) and gave each other washing powder tiaras…   
And now it is six o’clock. Finley is inventing jokes past himself (What do you call a flower walking? A walking flower Mummy! Think Gangan will get it ??). There are steak and onions bubbling in a casserole and a hot water bottle balanced precariously on my period racked stomach. Tis a  scene of domestic bliss,  my little  gingham jarmied son crayoning a parrot at my feet,  Dorothy Whipples “They Knew Mr Knight” lying open  on the arm of my red chair, a blanket trimmed with sequins flung over the sofa and Terry Wogan  reading a bedtime story to the nations children on the tv lighting up our room.
But soon he will be in bed. Soon it will be just me and my tray again. Talking to these four walls and aching for grown up company.  No doubt I will take a bath in milky oatmeal (I use oatmeal mixed with powdered milk and lately, a handful of salt),  and climb into my sheepskin lined bed, an early night resplendent with chamomile tea, leftover fudge and last Sundays supplements. Perhaps like last night I will fall asleep with the light on, find myself roused by a heart beating too fast and pick up my book all over again. Because morning always comes  too soon and we have to make the most of ordinary joy.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Lonely is a terrible word isn’t it?