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A day in the life

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A day in the life Although physically aroused, my mind remains numb and without thought. It may be seven forty five, and the bus leaves in ten minutes, I do not feel rushed in my naked state as I moan to the bathroom, scratching that which is irritating. My attempt to smarten myself my self up fails, and I settle for stroking my hair on end, no doubt it will be interpreted as fashion, not laziness. The pain in my stomach for the attention of something fried and greasy, is growing by the minute. I mustn't give in. Bond wouldn't give in. Oh no, he would remain strong in the face of adversity, stiff upper lip and all that, then he'd make love with the gorgeous, virginal, man-hating lesbian, whom he entrances with but a flick of an eyebrow and a sharp quip. But I am not Bond, contrary to what my dreams may indicate, a place I shall return to on the bus. ...read more.


I do not wish to socialise. I am not physically up to it. My spirit has taken leave with the sun. Thus, I hide behind the shield of my sunglasses, turn my head, and again return to my psyche, to battle evil and tyranny, quote cheesy lines and make love to beautiful women, for I am Bond once more. Harumph. This is the sound, for that is all it is, that passes my lips when I am rudely awakened by a jolt, comparable to that the titanic felt no doubt, when she was driven into an iceberg. I feel pity for the iceberg, for my head hums, as if hit by a cruise ship. Most unpleasant. And to boot, Blofeld is still at large. I worry not; law is second lesson, a chance to dream. Still I bear a grudge at the cad who caused my disruption. I always presumed drivers could drive. Though it is said that presumption is the mother of all cock-ups. ...read more.


The canteen provides a rest bite, the comfort of a sausage and bacon roll erases my ill thoughts. I am half-content. But this is expected. Why should this morning be any different, Monday to Friday is the proverbial scratched record, always the same. My mind is entertaining itself with Mr McCartney explaining the day before today, my body on autopilot, cruise control taking me to my history room. I grace the classroom with my presence, not a head turns. Ahh, I am late. I perform the walk of shame, though my lecturer dryly conveys good morning, as opposed to Anne Robinson's sentence of goodbye, yet it still carries the same sting. I collapse into my chair, my stomach eager to embark upon more acrobatics when my eyes survey my task of the morning. Feeling resilient, I nod to my entire table, sit back and don my eyewear. I have not the will power to wait for law, nor the drive to perform at this moment in time. A secret agent once more, I return to my dreams. 904 words ...read more.

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