10am
The idea of George getting out of bed any sooner than afternoon was a strange occurrence on a Sunday. Somewhere in a sleep-filled haze, Trish mumbled something along the lines of an acknowledgement as he made his way unceremoniously out of their room. She was inclined to think that it was merely an odd collection of mis-informed sleep thoughts and he'd simply gone to the loo. She'd even gone so far as to drift off to sleep again before she was awoken again by shouting.
Fred, stop fucking and get a move on.
It was a slow thing, but gears began to click in her head at just how strange it all was. She pulled herself up, a pair of leggings and one of his jumpers he'd left on the floor to make her way out to the living room. She'd have thought it was all part of some odd dream, to walk in on George eating stalks of asparagus. Her brows knit, her head tilting to the side as though she, herself, was the question mark at the end of her quizzical expression.