One Fine Day

This is a short, rather aimless piece about nothing in particular. I was toying with the idea of using something like this for the first creative writing assignment, but ultimately went with a completely different approach instead. Having nothing else to do with this therefore, I decided I might as well stick it up on here…

I heard the doorbell ring, but as usual I allowed it to do so several times until, eventually, whoever had been compounding my Wednesday morning misery decided to give up and go home. It had been a heavy night, the sort that usually precedes a miserable morning, and I was glad to be able to return to suffering in relative silence. The television was on but it was merely for something to focus on as, believe it or not, I had little real desire to watch The Jeremy Kyle Show, where the main man himself was currently interviewing some ill-looking council estate disgrace about her lethal cocaine habit and the affair she had had with her boyfriend’s brother, while her three little brats (from three different fathers incidentally) ran around the stage shouting. Old Jeremy was growing more exasperated by the minute and I almost began to feel sorry for him before I remembered the obscene amount of money he must be making from this circus. I assessed his glacial features and gave it about four minutes, tops, before he exploded in his self-righteous manner into his favourite “Get off my stage” line that he saved specially for the very worst specimens brought before him.

            Bits and pieces were coming back to me from the previous night, almost like snapshots, of me and various acquaintances in the pub, the club, the chip shop, the night bus, but they all possessed that shadowy, blurry feel more associated with dreams than with memory. It had been remarkably good luck that my mother had left for work before I woke up, as any sign of a hangover on my part and I could forget any grain of sympathy or warmth from her. Despite my pain however I was in a good mood, Wednesday was the one day in the week where I had neither work nor university to worry about, and I began forming a day’s loose itinerary in my head while taking in the latest guest on Jeremy’s show: a hulking, 20 stone, brute of a man with no job and an alcohol dependency to rival that of Homer Simpson’s. He had been convinced to appear on the show by his sister who desperately wanted him to give up drinking. The thing that struck me however was that if she really wanted him to clean his act up she would have put his name forward for therapy or signed him up for AA meetings or something, as opposed to simply appearing on this farce and hoping that Jeremy would magically solve everything. It made for excellent television though, real be-thankful-for-what-you’ve-got kind of stuff. I predicted that it wouldn’t be long before Graham, Jeremy’s resident psychiatrist or whatever he is, was brought out from behind the curtain to give his thoughts on this workshy behemoth. I wasn’t wrong in this assertion.

            With that I decided that it was time I finally got out of bed. Feeling fragile and numb I made my way downstairs very slowly indeed, hoping to keep the pounding in my head to a minimum. Every new movement seemed to cause fresh agonies, and I considered that I seriously owed it to myself to have a short break halfway down the staircase. After a suitable period of recuperation therefore, I descended from the stairs into the hall, discovering by the front door a small mound of letters, bills and junkmail recently delivered by our postman, Frank. My attention not diverted by this small blip on my radar, I heroically pressed on in search of some sugary hangover cure. I left the kitchen some moments later having procured a bottle of lucozade and four paracetamol caplets, a good result indeed. Feeling unable to face the stairs again I took my bounty through to the living room, turned the fire on, stuck Jamie T’s first album on the stereo, and ensconced myself in a comfy chair by the window to simply gaze out at the grey sky, the grey pavement, and everything in between. As I watched the sky, small white flakes started to fall from it. An interesting development I thought. My attention was unceremoniously wrenched from this beautiful sight by a quick vibration in my tracksuit bottoms’ pocket, which instantly told me that I was a wanted man. I took out my phone to find a text from an associate of mine whose morning thus far was evidently mirroring mine exactly. He had quite a way with words, did this associate. His message simply read “I feel like I might die. Last night was well good. P.S Jezza’s got some crackin guests on today eh?”

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