It was a frigid morning in mid-January, the frost sparkling on car bonnets as he closed the front door behind him and turned left towards the train station. The man from three doors down was busy scraping the ice off his windscreen, the harsh sound of the plastic scraper interrupting the early morning peace. With every exhale, warm breath fogged up his glasses, blurring his surroundings. His fingers started to tingle and throb painfully from the bitterness of the morning air, and he put them in his pockets for warmth – as usual he had forgotten his gloves. It was a beautiful morning, despite the temperature. The sky was a clear, azure blue, the bright sunshine glimmering and twinkling as it caught the blades of the frozen grass. A light breeze rustled the branches of a nearby holly bush, its red berries and fresh green leaves conspicuous amongst the bare winter trees. His attention was caught by a small bird, trying in vain to dig its beak into the ground in search of food. ‘You won’t find much today,’ he thought to himself as he passed it. This was his favourite kind of morning, and he felt an overwhelming sense of contentment as he took his usual shortcut through the park. So long as mornings like this existed, he decided, he could cope with whatever life chose to throw at him.