My life is simple. Every working day I wake up at seven o’clock to the sound of my smartphone’s lovely alarm melody. Blindly, I first try to shove it under my pillow and hope beyond hope that the hefty layer of a cheap microfibre filling can muffle the rumpus. It can’t. It never does! Be it a relaxing piece of classical music or a full-on heavy metal guitar solo; I simply cannot carry on sleeping while that diabolical gadget does its morning duty. The same melody repeated over and over, and over again …
Now, let me give you a piece of advice. Never set your favourite song as your alarm ringtone. There has never been a quicker or more reliable way to turn love into hatred. No, not even David Cameron (with his post-referendum morning speech) can beat that. Well, perhaps he can, but only if you’re Scottish. Back to the story though. The Pandora’s box has been open and it keeeeps ringing!
Resigning to the fact that I will need to open my eyes and locate where on the flimsy touch-screen (which, as a rule, is somehow always upside-down) I can find that glorious snooze button that the designers could not possibly make any smaller even if they tried, I slowly, very slowly … open my eyes. There! Snooze!
Five minutes pass. Ring, ding, bada, boom! And snooze!
Nine minutes and fifty-eight seconds. I wake up two seconds before the alarm goes off again, just so I can beat it to its first beep. SNOOZE!
Sometimes, I think Facebook should call their like button snooze instead. Everybody would get at least twice as many likes as they do now, and we could all do with a bit more snoozing.
Thirty minutes later, my phone dies, and I am forced to get up, knowing that if I fall asleep now, I won’t get to work till the afternoon. I crawl out of bed and into the bathroom. A pee and a shower, not necessarily in that order—the former sometimes taking longer than the latter (beer anyone?)—are followed by brushing my hair and combing my teeth.
Back to the bedroom. Holy sugar! I’m running late again. Let’s check my Twitter updates and maybe do a bit of editing.
“All right, all right!” I reply to my consciousness. “Don’t bloody freak out! I’m going now. See? I’m closing my laptop and putting it into my bag.”
With the bag over my shoulder and sometimes also some clothes on, I run out of the apartment towards the bus stop. The driver closes the doors two seconds before I get there and pretends I don’t exist when I knock, as he waits for another minute for the traffic to let him/her pull out of the bus stop.
The next bus doesn’t seem to be in any rush to turn up, and when it does, we progress at the speed of a snail with a severe mobility disability. I take the bus from its first stop, so I can usually choose a nice place where I can work. These netbooks are actually useful, guys: you can hack into the on-board computer, quickly write down credit card numbers of the people who get on the bus as they put them back to their wallets, or even watch porn—if you happen to sit at the back of a WiFi-enabled bus. I, of course, don’t do any of those things and use my little fellow only for writing.
I usually get about forty-five minutes of good writing time in the morning. That is, if there are no sexy girls walking down the streets. Hello Red-head!
When I get to work I … well, I can’t tell you what I do at work, or I’d have to kill you afterwards. Top secret and stuff. During the lunch break, I write a bit more and eat a lot more—mostly unhealthy food that I pretend is good for me. Even the rest of the day is fun though. As I said, I can’t tell you much. Maybe just a few innocent details: I use nuke a lot. I kill nans. And listen to audiobooks. And charge my phone. And … yep, that’s about it.
The journey home means another thirty-five minutes of writing. It’s the same bus, and the same route, and the traffic looks equally bad, but it still somehow takes a bit less time. I think it’s something to do with quantum mechanics, or the theory of relativity, or that weird guy I see every morning. Time and space is like fabric. It can stretch, you know! That’s what my teachers used to say. And what my supervisors at work seem to think sometimes—especially before deadlines. If I go with my experience of fabrics, they usually don’t stretch that much. Mostly they just shrink and turn red because of that vivid sock that I put into the washing machine at ninety degrees together with a all my white stuff.
Bathroom, food, bathroom, sometimes a bit of TV, and more writing. Mix it up to get a different flavour every day. Then it’s suddenly midnight (just like exactly like right now; like this very moment; like), and it’s time to dream about something nice.
Typography? Maybe …
Or the topic of my next blog post. That’s more like it.
Half past midnight. Time to sleep. At least until the evil melody starts again at seven o’clock in the morning.