7am alarm goes off!
It’s the 4th time I am hysterically screaming at my existence at this point.
7.00 rings with a louder reminder & title which says
“Fucking wake now”!
I am the only reason, I may be the only human being on the face of the earth who sets her alarm to go off 4 times. I am not quite sure that sentence made any sense but there you go!
I spend 5 mins trying to feel my legs on earth.
Up and I activate robot girl mode.
I grab my apple cider vinegar flavoured water.
Butter out of the fridge
Two slices in toaster
Boil two eggs
Put the nespresso machine on
Spend the next ten years finding what to wear.
How have I become so disorganised in my adult life? I think to myself.
The weather says its 10 degrees now but will be 27 from noon.
Fuck British weather!
Perhaps a skirt and a camisole?
I go to the balcony to test the weather.
It’s a little nippy.
Take a coat and look stupid later in the day. Wear tights now and look ridiculous later on the tube, when every part of your body and other bodies are sweating in smelly unison on the central line at 98 degrees fahrenheit. My expression of disgust says it all!
Fuck, just wear the black pants and a sleeveless top and take a jumper. My jumper is brown. It does not match this outfit. Wear a dress. I can’t do the back zipper There is no one to help me. One of the down sides of living alone in your adult life. I spend 10 mins swerving to the right, left, backwards, downwards to reach the middle side of the zipper.It then gets stuck to strands of my weave.
Can’t unhook it.
I get a scissors and cut the hooked strands.
My weave now looks shorter at the back.
Put a bit of powder on.
I apply more moisturiser on my feet.
Why are my feet always this dry?
I am convinced I have alien feet!
Managed to finally get out of the door looking somewhat shabby. Laptop and handbag all strung across my torso. My steps feel like I have been carrying bricks all night on a construction site.
Bus, Central line, Jubilee line, Waterloo station
Why are these arseholes walking like retards? What is the matter with Londoners, no, actually, what’s the matter with London tourists?
Are they this deluded that on a weekday, this early in the morning, that they think everyone else commuting is a tourist, stopping/standing right in the middle of the stairs, escalators, exits, trying to figure out a paper map of London city. Who uses paper maps these days anyway. Its retarded, get on google maps, it takes you where you need to go please?
I think tourists should be jailed for taking up the time of London workers and early commuters. They should be ashamed of themselves. Ever heard of when in Rome…?
It’s 8.50 and I have 10 minutes to get in.
Not that anyone cares but if I decide to leave at 4.30, no one makes any dumb snide remarks about me coming in later than 9. You fucked up clock watcher! Go brush your hair for starters, you look like death!
Managed to get through 600 escalators in Waterloo with a few minutes to get my Starbucks regular. The queue is longer than the Erasmus bridge and the Afsluitdijk motorway put together. Yes I have been places and yes this is a show off!
Men, fuck this branch, I mutter. Going to the Belvedere branch in South bank even though I have to go past my office to get there and I get paranoid that my colleagues can see me from the ceiling to floor glass set up on the 4th Floor. I am always ready to lift the middle finger at them! I kiss my teeth in a loud uncouth African style.
Now, I have 7 minutes to get there and back to the office.
Does this ‘Waterloo Big Issue Man’ ever leave that spot? Does he take a shower, sleep, eat, do normal things like normal human beings?
As I approach him, he screams…
“Big Issue Madam, Take Care, Big Issue, Madam, Merci, Big Issue Madam, repetition! WTF!
I have to admit that the first day I heard him yell those words, I nearly jumped in fear and ran back into the station. But this is the beauty of routine. You become so used to it. That certainty of how your day is going to go is somewhat a comfortable place to be.
Right, thats my comic relief dose sorted for the day!
(Big Issue Man @ Waterloo station exit. I swear he never leaves!)
I arrive South bank
Of course, there is no queue because all the dumb fucks are queuing in Waterloo station.
What’s your name? June. I have a feeling she hasnt spelt it right like her colleagues did last week.
Regular caramel macchiato, she shouts to her colleague.
She hands me my croissant
I perch in the corner. 100 people now walk in. Please give me my coffee now as I cannot physically or mentally manage this chaos! I don’t like human beings and more specifically, not many of them stuck in a small cafe.
They call: Jeanne, Josh, Joan, Juan, Jim!!!. Silence! I know it’s me. Everyone is looking at themselves wondering who has 6 names?!!!
Who ordered caramel macchiato? I did! And for fuck sakes, I am here almost every other day, and you still cant get my name right. It’s June, like the month! How have I ever looked like a man to be called male names. These people are so dumb. I manage to make it in for 9.03am. This is where my clinical depression sets in.
Andrew sees me with a cup in my hands and yet asks me if I want coffee. No, you dumb fuck!
No, I don’t drink instant coffee. Duh! And thanks for the offer to be overloaded with caffeine this morning. Wait! How is it I pay a fiver a month to the coffee club but never have had a coffee in this office? I spend that each day on a caramel macchiato and a croissant and have become posh and broke since Starbucks introduced this flavoured coffee.
Starbucks, tsk! Fucking unethical tax swerving monopolistic cunts! But hey ho, they are the only ones who make a badass macchiato! Ever heard of ‘unique selling point’? My MBA comes handy. Ha!
So yes Henry doesn’t feel I should continue to buy coffee from them and I agree with his moral logic, so I just lie all the time seeing as we agreed to patronise the smaller businesses who run road side cafes. The only issue with this is, as much as they are cheaper and we need to support smaller businesses, I still cant get my macchiato anywhere else. If you are a coffee enthusiast or connoisseur like me, you need to nod your head to this. And, hush, do not tell Henry.
Anyway, so after spending 10 hours of my day living the absolute cosmopolitan working city life experience and out of that 10 hours, 8hrs of my time with absolute arseholes (no,I meant my brilliant colleagues), I still decide and still chose to head home, eat, sleep (at almost midnight) and have the same level of events repeated the next day, next week and all year round! This has to be the sole reason I am crazy.
So if somebody can arrange to please get me a sea-side home, or maybe a country home, a farm town house, whatever, where I can wear wellies in mud to clean and feed the pigs, milk the cows, feed birds and crops and have a part-time job, working one day a week, dressed like a Spanish waiter in a little country bistro with 3 customers a day, whilst caring for my 15 children, 2 cats, 4 dogs and a rich husband and being the perfect hausfrau, that would be simply fantastic.
But what is life without these events?