The bloody bastard alarm! My eyeballs shrivel like two meatballs in a sand bucket as soon as they make unwelcomed contact with the daylight that streaks its way deliberately through the Wilkinson’s special voile curtains that drape across my pigeon-hole bedroom window. I knew I shouldn’t have been tempted by the sale, but I’m currently making a mental ‘note to self’ to chuck a pair of my un-ironed but too well-loved granny-pants in its place tomorrow when I’ll be sure to sleep through my alarm like a baby. How devilish!
Fumbling for my blackberry I roll my thumb over to ‘snooze’ and wait in bed for another four and a half more minutes before hurriedly switching the alarm to off just in time; justifying my need to beat the sleep timer and win every challenge in life no matter how trivial. One billion to nil, to me of course.
I roll my head back into my favourite pillow, stretch my arms and legs as far as humanly possible until I’m rewarded with a crack of my joints and push my arse into the air. God I love my bed, but why must I leave it so soon? One day when I’m Queen I will absolutely have an entire office made out of bed and travel to work with a single, yet elegant, forward roll. Grinning to nobody as I sit in my empty room in just a t-shirt and morning-breath I finally muster the enthusiasm to kick my legs to one side and swivel to the edge of my fluffy Kingdom and drag myself into the bathroom to build myself a face. So what’s it today Miss: Natural beauty or scarlet harlot? Hmm, catching a glimpse of my bum cheeks in the bathroom mirror as I fetch the moisturiser off of the shelf I quip to choose harlot today.
Several minutes later, a few layers of foundation, kohl eye pencil, rouged cheeks, pouting and an unsatisfactorily short poo that I’d hoped would rid me of several pounds of body fat but annoyingly didn’t, and here I stand ready to face the day. A china doll face stares back at me in the mirror that Jackie Chan would be proud of, because no other Chinese men’s names spring to mind! That’s to presume he’s Chinese and not some other kind of Asian variety? Close-minded I know.
Giving myself the once over in the mirror I realise my shoulder-length brown mane could do with a split-end trim so I tie it up in a messy bun and run my finger over my teeth to clean off my migrating lip gloss. My blue eyes never fail to impress me with their ability to switch from sandy morning meatballs to crystal pools of sexuality within minutes. And my size eight to ten yo-yoing figure isn’t looking too bad today for a thirty-year-old singleton. If it wasn’t for my triangular tits and the odd stray hair on my chin I could possibly harbour an innate affection towards myself, which technically would be allowed as it’s not classified as weird if you met and dated yourself if you weren’t ever you. I think. That’s to say if I was a man then I would totally want to date me and marry me and buy me nice dresses to wear everyday. Not that I want to be a man because I like being me and having a vagina, apart from when I’m on my period. Oh shit, is that the time!? Jesus Christ I’m late again!
Singing along to Nicki Minaj with the stereo of my fiesta on full, I vacantly cut up cars, over-steer on every roundabout and almost clip a powder-blue Saab as I screech into the staff car park whilst bad man rapping: “He cold, he dope, he might sell coke. He always in the air, but he never fly coach. He a motherfucking trip, trip, sailor of the ship, ship. When he make it drip, drip kiss him on the lip, lip!”
“Oi biatch! On time as always, good to see Sand!” Ah, Ben. Ben, Ben, Ben… Ben. You and your face and body. If you weren’t my work colleague who already had a girlfriend I would so totally do you hard! Or at least try to get you drunk and make you marry me at the works Christmas do. Maybe next year? Yes. I’m mentally picturing your boxer shorts tossed over my bedside lamp as we speak.
“Hey, what’s up?” I smile, “Is Gaylord in yet?” Gaynor, or Gaylord as we so loving refer to her, is our boss at Tesco’s. She is an utter turd-burger and one of those annoyingly perfect people who are always right, always on time, always wearing matching shoes and I’d imagine she listens to Radio Two whilst shitting. Bitch.
“Nah, I don’t think so? Her cars not here, reckon we got away with it, come on let’s get a move on!” Oh, please keep speaking Ben so I can continue to watch your lips while you talk and suspend myself in this dreamy fantasy haze just a little while longer. Resignedly I follow his finely shaped, sweet muscular backside through the staff entrance to my station, the meat counter, a whole twenty-three steps away from Ben on the adjacent cheese counter. Swoon.
And seemingly from out of nowhere a stiflingly blunt voice shatters my cosy lust haze “Sandra Gardener! You’re late!” and Gaylord, you’re fucking lame!
So tell me guys and girls, should I write more?