After checking the night’s goings on and recent Facebook activity on my phone on my porcelain throne, it’s shower time. In my book, nothing has the innate ability to wake you up to a state of readiness for pretty much anything, whilst still being soothing and putting you in a state of total relaxation, than a power-shower. After being delightfully woken up by the shower, my mind decides that now would be a good time to have a shave: after breakfast may be too late and Mother screws at me if I leave the house a minute (or twelve) later than 07:45. A resurgent and smooth-faced, yet high (on condensation), version of myself emerges from the sanctuary wearing only a light blue towel and a few droplets of water. Since there aren’t any photographers around, I decide that I should probably stop posing in the mirror and continue with the whole getting dressed routine.
After losing the towel and donning the uniform I have grown to adapt to my own style, (can’t be doing with the ‘chav’ look, and rocker doesn’t suit) that being suave and debonair, well, as debonair as you can be in a school uniform: the tie, almost down to the waist, but not to seem nerd-ish, the shirt, pressed and as smooth as the face that crowns it, the trousers, also pressed and with the waistband around my hips rather than around my testicles. After another successfully completed task, it’s on to breakfast.
‘Strut down the stairs’ is the instruction that comes from my brain. To be honest how I have got through life with this thing aiding my decision making, but I’ll get by. ‘Now waltz to the kitchen’ is the next instruction. Seriously? How is this possible? Foolishly I obey, and then run into Father concocting an omelette for his breakfast. I have never understood him. An omelette for breakfast – really? I manage to ‘umm’ and ‘arrgh’ my way out of this particular situation, but no amount of ‘umming’ and ‘arrghing’ is going to help in my next predicament – What to have for breakfast. It is the eternal conundrum, baffling even the mightiest scholars for years, and till now it has baffled me. I have this theory, it goes things that feel good, are. So by me having eggs on marmite toast with a sprinkling of pepper and a dash of salt with Tropicana Original Orange Juice followed by a good bowl of porridge with Golden Lion Syrup, I am aiding my day by feeling good in the morning. At last, my preposterous excuse for a decision-maker has made a good one!
The final part of my preparations is to clean my teeth. It is merely a simple jog up the stairs followed by locating the toothpaste (it often gets stolen by Libby) and then attempting to clean my teeth and be in enough control as to not cut my gums. Followed by a swig of Listerine and I am ready. I pick up my bags sling them round my shoulder, unplug my phone, slip on my blazer and freshly polished Dolce & Gabbana shoes (and breathe) and I’m gone.
That blisteringly cold English wind is biting on my neck, much like… oh never mind. My long johns and vest helps protect me from glacial English weather. Global Warming is definitely not a concept that has caught on so far in the mind of the weather gods of Essex. The biting wind is quickly tailed by a driving sleet and with it, the need for a coat. Since I refuse to wear my school blazer (it just feels so old and limp) I need to rush back home and fetch one from my wardrobe. Mother really isn’t happy to see me back home so soon and I have to side step her in the hall to avoid her persistent questioning so to get upstairs. After grabbing the coat, I then have to sidestep Mother on the landing, who has followed me upstairs to continue her enquiries. Sprinting downstairs, I fall over Libby who has followed Mother up the stairs in the hope of food. For the second time in the space of thirteen-and-a-little-bit minutes, I find myself walking out of the door on my way to school. And what a morning I have in store.
