Finally giving in to the inevitability of consciousness with all promise of further sleep dissolved, I grab my freshly crumpled clothes from the top bunk of my bed and head out into the cold dark depths of the corridors of my house, vainly searching for the bathroom. Having come to the realisation that it is directly in front of my bedroom door, I promptly hop inside for a nice, warm shower. Cold showers are supposed to wake you up, but I find that they just make my mood darker, a difficult task after I’ve just woken up.
By the time I’ve had my shower and pulled on my nicely creased clothes, it’s usually about forty-five minutes past seven, at which time I go downstairs and feed the attention loving simpleton that is my dog. This usually consumes about 10 minutes of my time, as I have to watch her when I let her out to make sure she doesn’t jump over the back fence and escape again. This has happened less often as of late, although I suspect that the hole she’s been digging recently may in fact be an escape route seeing as how it’s beginning to rival the channel tunnel for sheer size.
After seeing to this I grab my bag, which sometimes has the right stuff in but usually doesn’t, and head outside. I examine the pile of rust I pass off as my bike, making sure it’s in a useable condition (i.e. has a saddle, pedals, and 2 wheels, and maybe if I’m lucky brakes and gears that work). If this is the case, I hop on board and begin the treacherous journey to school. The journey is difficult and I’m getting tired, but I see the end in sight. Battered and exhausted, I make it to the end of my driveway - only another 2 miles to go.
Having made it to school, I go to the bike shed and stand my bike there. I usually lock it, but sometimes I can’t be bothered because frankly it’s such a heap of junk that I’d have to pay someone to nab it for me. I saunter across the playground, dodging the random groups of gossiping girls and belligerent boys, and then I arrive at the obstacle that has confused mankind for centuries and may never be overcome – the dreaded double doors. Now, with there being 2 doors there, you would think that you would have the freedom of choice to open whichever door you so choose to push. But this is not so. The cruel caretakers like to play a little game with us poor students, where each day they will lock one of the doors. It is up to us to guess which door is locked and which is unlocked, at the risk of looking like a complete tit in front of their friends. But I have come up with a cunning plan. I steal up to the door, looking over my shoulders like a frightened squirrel, praying that no-one is watching me, and carefully try a door. It doesn’t budge. I smile to myself, knowing that my plan has worked and that I no longer face the imminent danger of embarrassment, and walk straight into the other door. Having found out the hard way that today they are in fact both locked, I pick myself up, and swear that someday I will get my revenge on the caretakers, and it shall be sweet.
Now school is one of those unanswerable questions that life likes to throw in our faces like an unwashed pair of y-fronts. On the one hand, it is a brilliant opportunity to socialise and gain ourselves a sparkling education that will get us well-paid jobs and allow us to die fat, rich, and satisfied (or so they tell us). On the other hand it is one of the single most boring experiences ever devised by those evil little pixies that we pass off as our government. It all depends on the lessons I get, and that depends on what day of the week it is. Take, for example, a Week 1 Monday. Having gotten over the fact that it’s no longer the weekend and I am not allowed to sleep any more, I find myself facing double Maths, Spanish, double Biology, and Chemistry. To me, this combination is like writing “Kick me in the balls, I like it” on my head and walking through the cafeteria during lunch break: inevitable pain served up on a plate like last week’s sauerkraut. On the other hand, we have a Week 1 Tuesday, where the combination of double English, Double Business Studies, Spanish, and P.S.E (Personal Sleeping Exercises) leaves me feeling somewhat more pleased with life in general. Assuming the day is a Monday, I will usually leave the school having fallen kicking and screaming from the cliffs that border insanity and landed somewhat dejectedly in the snake pit at the bottom.
With my obligatory day of torture at school over, I trudge home, my bike usually having been taken out of action somewhere between my leaving home and unlocking it after school.
I enter my driveway, facing another fork in the twisting road of fate – is my mum home yet, or am I free to run riot for whatever small amount of time remains before her inevitable return? I walk steadily, knowing that each step takes me closer to the fearful truth. Slowly but surely, the gravel path that leads up to my garage inches into view. I hold my breath, bite the bullet, and peep round… and rejoice because she isn’t home! I then collapse because I forgot to breathe in again.
After recovering I run into the house, dodging the junk that lines our hallways like tramps in a New York subway, and race upstairs to my room. Having changed into my “normal” clothing, I then face another of the key decisions that defines my day – do I hide in the computer room for as long as possible, fending off outsiders with unbearably loud rock music and talking to friends on the net or finding something really ‘interesting’ to do like scanning in my middle finger or homework; or do I venture into the outside world and join my friends, desperately trying to find something to keep me occupied and usually failing.
On most occasions the former is order of the day, and remains so until my mother returns home from work, at which time I must surrender myself to either doing homework or some cruel, torturous form of slave labour like the pulling of the infernal machine of suction over the dust packed floor covering we call our carpet, known to the general population as hoovering. My mum has always been a firm believer that people should work for their privileges, and I believe that this is a fine and upstanding point of view; nonetheless it shouldn’t apply to me because I’m special. At least that’s what they told me at the nice place with padded walls and funny long sleeved jackets.
Moving swiftly on we arrive at dinner, which more often than not is some form of alien matter partially resembling food, with whatever my mum decides to add to it “for nutrition” mixed in. It’s not as if she doesn’t try, it’s just that I’d probably prefer it if she didn’t, as it doesn’t usually add anything except a bad taste. Having force fed myself to please her, I wriggle free from her clutches and continue to avoid her for the rest of the night with the same effort and dedication that Osama Bin Laden puts into avoiding the American military.
When bedtime finally arrives, I grudgingly check my alarm, setting the time to wake me up as 7:01 (anything to avoid 7:00), before throwing my school clothes on to the top bunk for their nightly crumpling.
This is sometimes assisted by one of the cats, usually Felony (my 20 year old half sister Jessica’s cat), sometimes Tiddles (my 17 year old sister Stella’s cat), but never Maximillian - my Dad’s fat cat, who sleeps on top of the washing machine, or in the dog’s bed if the mood suits him. I take no responsibility for any of the names, as I’m not crazy, just a little disturbed. If any of the cats do decide to intervene in the nightly crumpling process, I have to search out some (relatively) clean clothes the next morning. As soon as all of this is dealt with I climb into my bed and either read or make desperate attempts at sleep. When it finally comes, I don’t usually notice until the next morning when that noise interrupts again, and that ghastly green glow returns to haunt me…
