Night and Day

I don't deal well with mornings any more, it seems. Tuesday was a particularly brilliant example. Tuesday announced it's presence with a bloody weird dream (George, my sister and I were at a Pink Floyd concert. George was building a domesday device, and explaining in his calm, cheerful voice that there was nothing to worry about. Then mushrooms started growing on the cherry tree next to the pink blossoms. I am never putting that much cheese on a lasagne again) and my alarm clock's impersonal, absurdly chipper beeping. After a night of HGVs and revellers travelling home past my bedroom window, I was less than pleased to hear its dulcet tones six inches from my ear. I rose, and shambled to the bathroom, where I proceeded to make a tremendous racket, what with squeaking hinges on the door, a sistern valve that does a fairly convincing impression of a banshee, and dropping my shampoo bottle in the confined of the shower, which scared me witless. Oh well. At least I was warm.

I then proceeded to drop my T shirt drawer (make of sturdy plywood rather than light pine) edge-first on my unsuspecting bare toes, provoking the sort of hissed vocabulary that would have made my Sunday school teacher furious with me. It's okay, I thought, through a mist of pain. I'll go to the kitchen, listen to the Chris Evans' Breakfast show, and drink tea. Everything will be well.

There was a dude asleep on the sofa. Don't get me wrong, I knew who he was. Come to think of it, I even knew beforehand he was staying, but evidently this is another section of my brain (along with hand-eye coordination and the speech centre) that had shut down. a;; the same, it's a rather disconcerting feeling to discover that a man with a beard is asleep in your kitchen, when you're still adjusting to the concept of reality after a fictional Pink Floyd concert. But that ruled out Radio 2.

Silently, I boiled the kettle and made tea.

Oh, Emma broke my teapot. Did I mention this? Complete accident, of course, but it was such a cheerful blue. Even when a little grubby in the mornings, it sort of said 'Hey, you know what, things could be worse. Have some tea'. That teapot had been around in my house at home for years. It had "The teapot co" embossed on the underneath I think. To her credit, Emma went out and bought me a new one. It's brown and doesn't talk to me. I wonder what I've done to offend it.

Tea made, I laid out my Weetabix in the bowl and fetched the milk from the fridge. Now, before I mention this next bit, I want to emphasise that I am a second year Engineer at a pretty good University, and an affiliate member of the Institution ofMechanical Engineers. But when it came down to it, with the milk in my left hand and the cereal bowl and tea mug laid out on the counter, I poured tea on my Weetabix. By the grace of god, there were more in the packet or I think I may have broken down in tears.

See, this is what I mean. A year ago, I would have eaten a nine o'clock start for breakfast and gone on to finish my to do list before eleven. I am no longer a morning person. When did this happen? At what point in my life did I start going into lectures bleary eyed because they were before noon? Whatever's going on, it can't be good.

On the plus side, David Lindley is coming to visit me this weekend, and we're going to a fancy dress party.

I just re-read that sentence. Coventry and Warwickshire, lock up your daughters, Lindley's coming to town.