The dull, humming sound of silence was pierced by the shrill scream of the alarm clock on bedside table. 6.03 am. She liked to set it a few odd minutes before she actually needed to get out of bed. It felt like there was more time for a snooze that way. A slender hand reaches out from somewhere within the blue ocean of her duvet and attempted to slap the clock back into silence, knocking over the half glass of water. It went all over the muddy brown side-table, darkening the wood, and with it, the things on the table. Receipts, an ice cream stick, a ticket from the matinee they caught, the remaining few pound coins, drunkenly, yet carefully dropped into a shallow bowl before collapsing into bed. Her mind explodes with new activity, panic, as an aching thought pops up – “and that letter, received late Saturday evening”.
“Shit!” A mad scramble to save the letter from the spreading wetness ensues. The bed sheets tangle around her body and she succeeds in ungracefully flopping off the bed onto her mildly damp jeans. This surprised her, she must have been exhausted if she hadn't even been able to put her jeans away. Rain in London - the wet chill of spitting rain have ruined many a summer’s day. She vaguely remembers sprinting her way home over fresh puddles from where the night bus dropped her off. She grabs the letter and chucks it over to the chair in the corner, where it lands with a squelch. It’s wet. She’ll have to remember to put it out in the sun for a bit with a paper weight; she’s not ready to throw it away yet. She needs to read it again, and then one more time. Her curiously dark eyes, now panda-like in appearance, wander over the remnants of chaos in her room from last night. She’s got to stop these late Sunday nights, she’s getting too old for them. Music is too loud and often just noise, the humid closeness of other people at a club is unbearable. The only good thing about late nights are those hotdogs with juicy onions they sell that are always so tempting, or chips, with extra vinegar. She could go for one of those right now… or maybe not, she thinks as she gets up and makes a dash for the bathroom.
Hangovers. The inevitable result of a night out, they sneak up on you in the early hours of the morning, while you’re passed out and not able enough to put up a fight when a migraine worse than any other threatens. It’s the beginning of the July, and a Monday, officially worst day of the week. She can’t afford to be late again. They already think she’s a bit student-like at work. So her dress sense is somewhat quirky, her experience lacking, and her attitude a bit too laid back for a mature world. She shakes her heavy head; some habits take a while to leave you. Sometimes she truly believes she did travel all last year.
She’s 26 tomorrow, the fifth of July ‘05, her new, improved grown-up life has started out disappointingly uneventful, she could sense it - she wasn’t headed in the right direction. In the bustle of London, everyone on the streets has a master plan. Everyone has somewhere to be, somewhere to go, someone to impress. Where was her somewhere, or someone? She always had a full weekend, plenty to do, plenty to eat, plenty of chatter, but come Monday, it was just plenty of emptiness.
She shuts the alarm off a second time and swallows a Panadol with a gulp of cold water from the tap. She usually preferred to have water from a bottle, or at least filtered, but she really couldn’t be fussy now. Slower than usual motor skills make getting ready in the morning near impossible, and with a big day ahead, she needs her mind to be clear as day. She gets herself presentable for work, glad that her outfit for the day was already put together, hanging in her closet. Hot showers work wonders on tough days, and soon, she’s at the table forcing herself to keep some toast down. As she feeds herself, she sighs to the mirror looming over the landing. Taking one last look at her mop of a mane, she decides it’s a lost cause and walks down the stairs to slip her shoes on. Glancing at her watch, she grabs her coat and bag from the hooks by the door. 7.07 am. Let the day begin, she thinks.
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