An Epic Morning

Hidden from view, the creature stirs, a monstrous groan issuing from its throat like the quiet, threatening growl of a dragon guarding its lair. Beneath the covers, John Albert, barely living at such an hour, pleads with God on high to allow him a precious few more minutes. But to no avail… the incessant beeping of that demonic alarm clock continues, hammering against his skull until he summons the strength to reach out and switch the infernal contraption off. Yes, it is seven o’clock. The same dreaded seven o’clock of every weekday morning. Desperate, he contemplates the danger of sleeping longer. Minutes may turn to hours in this place, and he must catch the bus, or be faced with an even worse fate at the hands of his boss.

With great effort, John arises, like the walking dead, and then stumbles like a wounded soldier to the bathroom. His first quest for the day: to reach the toilet before his time runs out. Thankfully, his mission is a success, and he proceeds down the narrow corridor, wary of the books and discarded shoes left lying out like traps, ready to send him sprawling on the ground.

The coffee machine calls to him like a seductive lover, begging to be switched on, and he obliges all too quickly, staring wistfully at the angelic machine in which his delicious beverage will be created. Stream arises in thick, hot wisps as the green light signals the end of the process, and he catches the fluid quickly in his cup as it drains out: the life blood of the coffee machine.

He requires his strength for the day, and searches the cupboards for something. Alas, the bread has all disappeared. It goes so quickly in this apartment, the victim of sandwiches and cheese-on-toast. Some other form of sustenance then. Cornflakes? John’s face is a picture of depression as he sits down to a bowl. He despises cornflakes with all of his being, but he forces each mouthful down his throat bravely, drowning it in milk and draining his coffee cup dry.

He returns to his room, where a desperate decision awaits him. What shall he wear today? Seized with worry, he opens his wardrobe, unable to recall whether or not he did his washing yesterday, and praying for the presence of a clean shirt. God smiles on our hero, as he pulls out a pale blue shirt and struggles into it. The rest of his clothes follow swiftly, until he stands in all his glory, ready for the day except for one minor detail. A return to the bathroom… he finds the instrument required and, raising it on high, proceeds to brush his teeth with the same rhythm as always. White foam spews from his mouth as though he is a rabid animal, and he spits into the sink, washing the foulness that was inside his mouth away, exorcising the remnants of cornflakes and the taste of coffee, leaving behind the pure, minty freshness of Colgate.

And now, at last, he is ready to face his quest. Brandishing his briefcase, he sets out the door, pausing only to lock it, securing his personal head quarters from attack. Turning to the right, he begins to walk proudly to his destination, unaware of the cruel trick fate had played on him. As he turns the final corner, he catches sight of his bus, pulling away at the far end of the street, disappearing from view around the corner. He watches, dumbfounded, and then checks his watch. He has failed… he was five minutes too late. All is lost.

Staring out in despair, John says, in the quiet voice of a broken, down-trodden hero, only one word:

“Shit.”