The morning routine begins with vowing the night before I will not wake up before 5.30 am. That I will be a normal person and wake up 30 minutes late for work and throw the alarm clock at the wall and go back to sleep. Except I’m up at some Godforsaken hour as usual and up and doing before you can ask ‘WTF happened to the dark hours?’
I pad to the kitchen, anxious not to wake my daughter who has a tendency to start screaming when woken at that hour, and try to make a cup of black coffee silently. Who knew coffee grains being carefully spooned into a cup could make such a racket?
Thoroughly alarmed at the sound of crashing coffee granules, my daughter grumbles up and pointedly stomps across my eyeline to grab her headphones in order to flop back into bed listening to soothing rain music. Don’t ask, I’m not even sure.
If I am feeling particularly brazen, I will also attempt a slice of toast. However, the ker-ching of the toaster signifying toast readiness has also been known to send my daughter into spasms. Toast ker-ching-ing drowns out rain music apparently.
Next is to leave coffee getting cold as I converse with the Twitterverse. A hurried ‘Good morning’ often turning into long dissertations, lewd commentary or UKip jokes.
A quick glance at the clock tower outside the bedroom window, and there is a full two hours before any sort of hurrying for work needs be hurried. Another quick glance and I am properly late if I don’t stop conversing with the Twitterverse and get into the shower.
Bathroom debate next. A quick run around with the flannel or a proper shower/bath? And didn’t I bathe (or was it shower) last night? One way or another, ablutions are concluded to some lesser or greater degree.
Plenty of time still, except…oh, bloody hell, surely I ironed today’s clothes last night? Surely? Nope. Damn it! Where’s the flipping iron?
Silk blouse thoroughly scorched, another uncertain (dirty) outfit from the week before is fished from the laundry basket. That happens when you’ve just moved house and your life as you knew it is still in boxes. Still, nothing a high end clothes purifier can’t sort out. Okay, it’s air freshener, but I’m sure I heard it’s all made in the same factory.
Shoes, shoes, where the hell are the shoes that go with this outfit? Next debate? Whether to shake awake the daugther with the same shoe size as me to damn well ask her the question.
No, easier to iron another dirty outfit for which complementary shoes can be easily found.
Time check. 10 minutes to do hair and make-up.
After 20 minutes of make-up, hands are scraped through hair into a modern pixie ‘Do’. (If that’s what the glossy magazines call a lazy and hectic hair scrape, me and my self-esteem are not going to disagree.)
Perfume. What sort of day is it today? What mood am I in? What message do I want to convey? Decisions, decisions.
Scented decisions which mean a frantic rush for the bus wondering how normal people survive life getting up at a normal hour.
HMS HerMelness Speaks