My alarm screeched at me this morning and, without bothering to open my eyes or lift my head, I stretched out an arm (the one I wasn’t lying on), felt around for a couple of seconds until skin contacted phone, and swiped my fingers around on the cool screen until the noise desisted.
When the incessant whining returned again five minutes later, I was marginally more awake to realise that I had failed to swipe ‘cancel’ and had instead selected ‘snooze’. Turning my head and opening one eye this time, I again reached out and aimed for the correct side of the screen with which to make contact. This dramatically increased effort resulted in the successful shutting up of the alarm, although my arm was left to dangle over the side of the bed, all energy having been used up.
Not satisfied with my desire to remain asleep, the alarm once again resumed its ‘meh meh meh MEH MEH MEH’ barely a few minutes after my false success. Both eyes shot open, my head revolved sharply and I glared at my fucking phone. It was no use: I was awake.
Resigned to my defeat; I sat, swung my legs out of bed, picked up my phone and imagined throwing it against a wall, before correctly swiping and shutting it up for good. Yawn, rub eyes, feel for glasses, find glasses, put on glasses. Coffee. A routine perfected and performed everyday for as long as glasses and coffee have been a necessary part of my life. Following that, a shower was optional, clothes mandatory. I was then having a nice time deciding what to have for breakfast when…
Ah, shit, I have to do washing.
Huffily dressing (shower negated), I scrambled for clothes strewn about the bedroom, reminding myself yet again to buy a clothes basket, and practically ran to the washing machine, arms loaded, hoping that the faster I carry out the chore, the sooner I will have time to do something more interesting, like sitting down.
Clothes in, tab in, door slammed, slammed again (they never like shutting the first time, do they), dial turned (click click click click click), and the satisfaction of hearing the machine fill with water to begin its miserable task. Breathing a sigh of relief, I turned back to happier, breakfast related thoughts, when…
Oh, crap. I need to wash up.
I was starting to feel betrayed, as though Sunday had it in for me. All I wanted to do was sit, drink tea, eat food and watch QI, and I wasn’t even allowed to do that in my own flat. My hands itched to find my phone and throw it against a wall as punishment for starting all of this. Instead, I put them to work in the kitchen. Bowl, hot water, fairy liquid, glass first, then cutlery, then crockery, pile up, air dry.
It took me an entire hour this morning to remember that I was in Poland, not England. The giveaway wasn’t the flat itself, in which I have only lived for two months, or the views outside the windows, or even the writing on the washing machine. It was the fairy liquid, because I noticed it wasn’t green. Nor is it technically fairy liquid.
Having finally succeeded in making breakfast (tea, muesli, yogurt, in case you were interested), and sitting down to watch Stephen waxing lyrical, I realised that I would probably be OK wherever I was in the world. Being unable to predict the future (like most of you, I’m sure), I naturally can’t be positive about this. But if I’m waking up in the morning, hating my alarm (MEH MEH MEH), following routines, cursing over chores, and generally living my life, then I suppose things must be alright! Granted, I’m aware that this doesn’t sound particularly interesting or exciting, but, guys, I’m living in a DIFFERENT COUNTRY. For me, and for those who know me, this is certainly excitement enough for me right now. If I had anymore I would probably explode. And I can’t be bothered to clean that on top of my other chores.