Skip to main content
Someday Morning
I awake, it's six-thirty, got to get up. Why didn't my alarm go off? I push back the quilt in an overly-enthusiastic manner, watch it fly through the air, hit the alarm clock off the bedside table. Maybe there isn’t someone breaking into my flat every day and putting my clock-radio on the floor. And maybe there’s a very good reason why the alarm’s not going off.
Jump out of bed and walk to the shower. And then I realise. It‘s Sunday! Go back to bed and rest my head back down on the pillow I should never have left. Why should I care about making a stupid mistake, when I have quality hours of inactivity to enjoy.
I'm feeling remarkably well considering the amount of alcohol I consumed last night. I think I may have beaten the evil that is a post-Saturday night hangover. I lift the clock radio off the floor and turn the radio on. Nicky Campbell's voice asks some overly elaborate question to a politician, that if deciphered into normal English, would probably read "You're a wanker aren't you what makes you think you‘re clever enough to talk to me?"
I am a little confused. Campbell presents the Breakfast show Monday to Friday, it seems a little over keen that he should be confusing his interviewees and listeners on Sunday as well.
What with Campbell being on the radio, me not having a hangover, coupled with the fact that it was Sunday yesterday, it really doesn't feel like a Sunday morning at all. Shit!
I throw off the cover, and watch it narrowly miss the alarm clock. Have a shower, grab two slices of bread and throw them in the toaster. Two minutes pass, and a couple of really burnt slices of bread jump out off the toaster, which I quickly throw away, bung another two in adjust the settings and two minutes later two even more burnt pieces of toast jump out. This time I make sure I adjust the toaster anti-clockwise and throw in my final two pieces of bread. Time is running low so I clean my teeth, rush back, grab the perfectly toasted bread, spread on some butter, and eat a mouthful of Colgate flavoured toast and throw the rest away.
I walk outside and look for my car. I remember I picked it up yesterday after leaving it outside the pub on Saturday afternoon. Then I remember I didn't pick it up yesterday after leaving it outside the pub on Saturday afternoon. I start the long walk to a pub at half-seven on a Monday morning.
Driving off, flicking between radio channels, and everyone tells me it’s Monday. I know! I get it now.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Olly Murs' Banality Nearly Killed us All!

For those who find the regular purchasing of Heat Magazine financially non-viable, the website 'Digital Spy' is there, free as an impact with a lampost to tickle your celebrity gossip feet. Who would of thought such an insignificant, trivia bloated, interweb cupboard would break the biggest story so far of the Anno Domini? ME! I predicted it in my unpublished book 2009 X-Factor Runner Up News Predictions (with a foreword from a now homeless Kate Thornton[she has a flat fee of a bacon baguette, a Cappuccino and a kind remark about her hair]). But I was wrong; the truth is they have done something much more exciting: For the first time ever, a news story has been written that is so inane and unimportant, it actually has less insight than no words at all. 'Uninformation' has been theoretical up to now. Einstein's calculations showed that it was a mathematical possibility but that an incident of it was incredibly unlikely to occur(roughly equivilent to the chances o

Coronation

 And so we come to the end of a day. A momentous day. Almost more than momentous. Almost a day that can't be described using the English language, or in fact any language that has words. Because words are out of their depth today. Words are embarrassing themselves. Words have massive holes in their pants. We should all stop talking, writing etc. The very act of communication has been shown up for the fraud that it is. Consciousness itself, guilty of being wholly unprepared by the solemnity, the pageantry, the commitment to service, we have been a witness to.  The sword held single-handedly by an empress MP Mordaunt, wrapped in a wizards cloak. The sword put down and picked-up again and then put down and then passed across and then paid for and then picked up again. I don't know where the sword's gone? We should find the sword.  No more "Queen's Consort". Now just "Queen", like the band. Prince Harry was there, placed carefully behind the hat of Princ

Breakfast

No sausages left. All gone. Taken while my eye was off the ball. Sausages consumed by structured souls  who attend breakfast buffets "on time". Those Prompt Sausage munchers know The early bird catches the piggy worm. Held teasingly in the beaks of accountants. Whilst I am left with bacon.