Reality tourist

Alfie pokes me. “Good morning Auntie Twiggy”. Hi-five’s me and walks off.

I wake up again later, confused. I have missed morning circle. Where am I? The extreme comfort of the bed has given me back ache. Where are my morning puncture wounds from the springs?

I open the door. The smell of bleach knocks me back; I had forgotten it existed. The sound of a vacuum cleaner. It stops. The road flows by, carrying lorries, cars, people. Busy with their lives. Today is every day, here. I used to be a part of it but I feel as if I am a tourist in the outside world.