8 POPPIES
by Mike Lord
The alarm clock on the bedside table shrilled. It was four thirty in the morning.
Mike sat up in bed and turned on the lights, blinding him slightly for a moment. He stood up and walked across to the bathroom. He shivered as he entered the door, and he reckoned that the bathroom was just about the coldest place in the complex, and saw that the thermometer on the bathroom wall indicated -5°C. Brrr.
He cleaned his teeth, and ran the hot water to get some warm water for shaving. Within fifteen minutes he was dressed, pulling on a thick sweater over his thermal underwear. He grabbed his haversack, which contained an anorak, and headed for the kitchen. Hot cinnamon tea was waiting in a large brown enamel kettle, and he gratefully grabbed the mug offered to him.
