There’s something wondrous to me about being awake in the night, when the rest of the household is asleep. I stare out of the window and observe that people on my street seem to be sleeping too. No silhouettes appear on the curtains or blinds, no rectangular frames of light. Gone are the street lamps of my childhood, which used to start off a translucent pink and warm to a Lucozade orange. I remember evenings at my grandparents watching them transform, especially in autumn and winter, when I found the glow most comforting on cold evenings. I celebrated Halloween, once with a black sugar paper cauldron, looking out of the window at the colour change whilst waiting for the moon and stars, or they acted as a countdown on Bonfire Nights when their amber illuminations signalled the beginning of the firework display. Now it seems daylight pools from the street lights, revealing the calm and silent at 3.37am. I use these nights to reflect and to write. I also adore early mornings, although there are more people about at this time, I allow them to infiltrate. I get to witness the glorious moment when the sun arrives and the day is filled with warmth, birds emerge, and their vocalisations are a melodic contrast to the still night before.