Early mornings

We're supposed to get used to them, are we?

I can't say I am. Some people wake up automatically at some stupid hour, and get ready for work without a problem.

I struggle to get up at 6am, and have struggled every day for the last eight months. Granted, the dark months of Winter do nothing to assist your work ethic and drive for life, but struggling as much as I do surely can't be right.

Aren't we supposed to have body clocks? Aren't they supposed to magically adjust thanks to routine?

I am twenty-three years old at time of publishing, and to this day if I don't get to bed at ten o'clock, waking up at six in the morning is an uphill battle of death, where the darkness is pinning you to the sheets.

Your brain starts thinking of methods of excusing you from work. Your dreams alter themselves and terraform into a world where having an alarm clock beeping at you in the background is a perfectly normal sound and that you can ignore it and carry on with whatever your mind has in store for you.

I hate alarm clocks because they wake me up, and they do it in the most disturbing fashion. No soft hands across your face asking you to "rise and shine". Oh no. WAKE UP YOU SON OF A BITCH. WAKE UP YOU SON OF A BITCH.

Harsh.

I use an alarm clock radio instead of an alarm clock. This means that instead of hating the beeping sound that your average alarm clock makes, I now hate and dread the sound of the DJ that's on at that particular time.

Dick and Dom have just taken the post for the early Friday morning BBC Radio 1 slot.

Joy.

The lie-in

I wrote this because I have exhausted my catalogue of thoughts for the week, and I can't very well go an entire week-day without publishing, can I?

So I had a lie-in this morning.

Except I didn't mean to.

I was supposed to set my alarm for 6am, inadvertently set it for 7am, and woke up to the sound of my girlfriend's alarm at 6:50am with a panic-stricken look on my face.

What you may be missing from the situation that's instilled panic within me, and confusion within you is the fact that Weston-super-Mare engages in a mass-exodus from between 7am and 9am.

An average of about 1 billion people (I'm throwing that number out there) leave Weston-super-Mare to get to Bristol for work because there isn't any work in Weston-super-Mare unless you want to sell sticks of rock and postcards of women with their bums out on sunbeds with the caption "Beach-bums" or something equally repugnant.

I have to leave Weston-super-Mare before this hits the motorway, and I'm late for work with nowhere in Bristol City to park. The only spaces available after a certain time will be so far away from the City centre that it'll probably be quicker for me to begin a pilgrimage to Mecca.

I had a curry the night before (Chicken-tikka bhoona) which was delicious, but is now going to haunt me for the rest of the day because I haven't had time to wipe the crusty stuff out of my eyes, never mind having a shower. I did the absolute bare-minimum (how much that is, I will leave to your imagination) to be reasonably clean, and raced out of the front-door. I was onto the motorway in record time, and parked in the best space I've parked in since I started my job nearly eight months ago.

Bonus.

I put my new Miles Davis album on my MP3 player, and started my treck to walk under a beautiful blue sky with a crisp breeze in the air.

You should really try walking anywhere whilst listening to Jazz music. It's amazing. You feel like the pink panther and it's the soundtrack to every action you make, from sitting on the toilet to pouring the kettle. Every nuance of every song seems to match whatever mundane action it is you're doing.

My headline picture is something I took on my way to work to capture the fact that somehow my day turned into something that could've been absolutely horrific to a really good start to the morning, feeling like the pink panther.