There’s no point in trying to write some kind of serious story if you’ve got properly happy tunes on in the background. That’s my routine. Turn on computer, press wireless button, double-click Media Player (iTunes is rubbish), Firefox, MSN and perhaps Limewire if I’ve got a couple tunes I need. Go away, get myself a drink or something, and it’s all ready to go. Usually I’ll then remember I need Word, and I’ll open that. Fireworks, occasionally. And that’s about it. The hours just fly. See, that right there… that’s a recipe for making time travel faster. If you wanna slow it down – go to school/college/university/work/whatever else it may be. Usually time speeds up if you wake up an hour before you’re supposed to – check your phone or alarm or clock or other means of time-telling device; blink and think, “yes, I can doze for an hour then I’ll be refreshed when I wake up!” You open your eyes from the ‘blink,’ only to find you’d nodded off again and your alarm has been ringing for the past fifteen minutes. You’re late, half-asleep, and you’ve realised what a shitty day it’s going to be. Breakfast is forced, rushed, while you try to make some kind of lunch. Bread and butter, ham and cheese; cereal, looking for clean bowls and you’re trying to figure out whether the milk, already four days past it’s best-by date, is still okay to drink. You skip the tea. Throwing books and paper and pens into your bag with no real thought of whether any of it is relevant, you stagger; forcing yourself not to run, as that would just be uncool; down the street as the English weather welcomes you to the world with a nice, cold downpour. It’s feeling in a particularly good mood today, so it throws in some wind. Just to make it rain horizontally into your face.

Zipping up your coat all the way to your chin – forgetting your scarf in your haste to leave – you angrily glare at the people who you pass. Why are they staring at you? Walking through the park on the way to the train station is no help. It’s always uphill when you’re late. Strange that. Unlocking your phone to get the backlight on, you glance at the time. You should already be at the station. Fingers freezing – only one glove made itself known to you, the other busy hiding with the scarf – you shove your phone back into your pocket and hastily do the button up. As you walk down the – yay, downhill! – part of the street which leads to the station, you can see the train pulling in. That’s the good thing about the overhead bridges. Really going to run in this weather? Shit, how much cash did the oyster have? Fuck it. You run anyway. Semi-slipping on the stairs as you race up them towards the platform – damn the track has to be high. Stupid bridge. You slam your oyster on the yellow circle, eyes only just catching the £1.40 you have left on it as you slip into the train before the doors catch you. Panting, exhausted, you try to compose yourself as the other passengers hide their sniggers behind their copies of the Metro. It’s only at that point, when fatigue raises it’s ugly head, that you realise you’ve shoved way too many things in your bag than necessary. No wonder it was such hard going – thing is too heavy! But hey, better safe than sorry? Flopping down on a free seat as the train pulls away with those awful electrical noises, you pick up a discarded Metro and flip to the last few pages – horoscopes and comics. The comics make you laugh, and the horoscope confuses you. Again, the paper is discarded with a scoff as you ignore the two-sentence long daily prediction for those born under the fishes; but you secretly wonder. Picking up the paper again, you read the sign next to yours. ‘Cause, you know. They can overlap sometimes. Proceeding immediately afterwards to read your boyfriend’s and then your father’s; it’s always good to have a heads up as to what kind of mood he’ll be when you get in. As for the boyfriend thing? Well it’s like asking yourself, why do you read his text messages? Smirking at yourself for your insecurity, the newspaper is discarded a second time as the train pulls into the next stop – Rayners Lane. You’re pleased, again, that you’re on the Westbound side. The platform across the tracks is packed with people; every one of which seems to stare at you as the train you’re on slows to a halt. With that whistle, the doors open and a few people flood in, filling up the rest of the seats on the train. It’s at that time you realise your breathing has slowed, resuming a normal pace. Again, you realise you really need to get into shape. Again, you laugh at yourself, knowing you’ll never do it. Well. Who knows. Maybe. Not in the near future though. The usual mix of people have now filled the train as it heads towards Eastcote; including that one, and there’s always one, weird guy who stares at everyone with some sort of puppy-adoration. You can almost see the drool in the corner of his mouth. Not wanting to be caught by the look, you pick up that faithful Metro again and hold it up; turning your gaze out the window. It’s there, as you catch your vague reflection, that you realise why people have been staring at you. Good morning, Eskimo.

After eventually reaching Uxbridge, and navigating your way out of the swathe of slow-moving people into the street – who never seem to realise they’re in the way, and blocking people; especially you, and especially when you’re late - your thirty minute walk to the University has to be cut down to fifteen if you don’t want to be embarrassingly late. Damn oversleeping. So what if you look like an Eskimo, with your coat zipped up to the chin and hood up to protect your hair from the niagra falls of the English clouds; you’re warm. Ish. Legs burning as you power-walk past cyclists, up that ridiculously long road, you enter campus. Left, straight towards the Lecture Centre. Fourth floor. Seminar. Stupid fortnightly thing. The lift is still broken so you force whatever remaining strength in your calf muscles to raise you to the correct floor. Only eighteen minutes late. Only. The room is empty. Grinding to a halt, you check your phone again; nine eighteen in the am. In the quiet words of the Virgin Mary, ‘Come again?’ Damn my love for quotes. Entering the room, you look around. What, you think they’re all hiding in the cupboard? Shaking your head, the hood comes down and the coat is unzipped. Exiting the room; dark; sun isn’t up yet and the lights hadn’t been switched on, you stand and think and wonder for another five minutes. For the third time that morning; you realise. You realise your seminar is always twelve noon until one. What the fuck are you doing here at nine in the morning? Laughing at your stupidity, and also in relief, you check your pockets for money. A fiver greets you. What with Christmas coming – every little helps. But you don’t. You’re cold and wet and feel vaguely sick from what was your breakfast.

Exiting the Lecture Centre, you go to Café Rocco. Over-priced, and so bad for you; but you order a Chocolate Delight. Large. £3.90. Damn… all the fiver is gone! Only a quid ten left. Sitting back in the chocolate-cream coloured sofas, your indulgence sitting comfortably on the table, you remove your coat and lay it to the side. Emptying the contents of your bag onto the table, you find four notebooks – three full and one full of doodles; a couple of pens, too. And also what can only be described as random shit – the wrappers of food you can’t remember eating, the bits of fluff you’ve no idea where they came from, receipts you keep for a record but never look at again. Grabbing a pen and turning to a clean page; you begin to write out your morning so far. The café is already quite busy; no-one can see exactly what you’re writing. You write anyway, just to look busy – taking sips from the indulgence sitting innocently in front of you.