It was a fine morning at the Philips manor, the sun had risen and its yellowish-golden flickers were giving a golden tinge to everything it touched. Signifying the beginning of a brand new day for those who were waking up. The birds were chirping their indistinctive melodies, flying from one tree to another and so were the butterflies and bees buzzing from a flower to another happily collecting nectar, and crickets were stridulating. All the animals were creating a calm and soothing rhythm. The air was fresh, the sky was blue with white patches of the cirrus clouds, and the wind was howling forcing the foliage to move to a rhythm of its own.
Peter Philips or as they loved to call him PP or just pit was lying on his bed, bare chested in a pair of shorts, sprawled like a seal on the ocean
