The alarm clock sounded like a banshee from hell, the sharp, high pitch noise piercing through the blissful tranquillity of the morning like a needle through a balloon. Owen sat straight up in bed and bashed his head off the bunk above. There was a slow creak, a huge crash and then a large pile of books came down, shaking the ground around the bunk-beds with a force that could easily have been a ten on the Richter scale.

And the alarm clock was still wailing its depressing tune just as loudly, screaming that the morning was here and wouldn't go away regardless of how much you ignored it or poked it with a big stick. Owen groaned and opened one sleepy eye. Staring out from under his blanket he scanned the room for any signs of the irritating invention. The alarm didn't reveal itself which meant only one thing, it wanted war.

His pillow was his sword, his duvet his shield and like any warrior he was lost without them. Narrowing his eyes, he plunged out of bed and leapt directly into the enemy lines, throwing books this way and that to find the alarm clock – the most hated of all the inanimate objects he was sure were plotting to kill him. In his opinion, after this morning's literature landslide he was well within his rights to smash the alarm clock into a million pieces and bury it – just so he could piss on its grave.

Eventually the books saw sense and revealed despised timepiece. It even had the courtesy to stop its incessant whining as a captive though its eternal ticking went on, warning that tomorrow morning it would be back. Undeterred, Owen tossed aside his duvet and pillow before bounding downstairs for his daily hero's breakfast of coco-pops. He'd won again.

From its abandoned place on the floor, the alarm clock allowed itself a chuckle. It had managed to get Owen out of bed once again and he still believed he had beaten the morning into submission. The books stayed silent in their smug recognition of victory.