Sunday morning

Say that, in the joy of celebration and the expectation of a nice sleep-in the following morning, you’d had perhaps a sip too much to drink on Saturday evening.

Say that, waking up parched and groggy at 7 AM, you took inordinate pleasure in a drink of water and the expectation of a long Sunday morning’s snooze.

Say that, at 8 AM, the roofers who had stacked squares of shingles in your driveway months before, arrived and announced themselves by shaking the house with a series of thuds, slams, and crashes, before building to a scraping, ripping crescendo as they demolished the existing roof just over what had been your gently pillowed head.

Say that, brutally robbed of healing sleep and feeling deeply put-upon, you staggered downstairs in not the best possible frame of mind, only to be reminded that, since some not entirely satisfactory early-winter work on the boiler and thermostats, the kitchen is no longer toasty, but frosty in the morning.

Say that you were both a weak enough character and sufficiently self-aware to know that you were about to be cranky and grumbly enough to make others as miserable as you were.

Then say that you spotted your six-month-old granddaughter playing on the rug with a measuring spoon. And say that when she saw you her face lit up and broke into a wide and beautiful grin.

Well, I won’t say that you’d turn into Cary Grant, but I bet you’d take on an aspect nearly human.