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Dear Christ and all his goblins, how I despise mornings. Especially wintery mornings, when the idea of leaving one’s cozy little bed is insupportable. Having to drag myself into consciousness at ten to eight every day is a hideous task, for which I do not feel I am justly rewarded. Also, is there anything worse than attempting to have a shower in a freezing cold bathroom with pathetic hot water pressure and occasional icy bursts? I think not, my friends. O, mine is a sorry lot. Also, this morning I was scraping the bottom of the sandwich barrel. I have jam sandwiches which, even as I type, will be turning into pink mush in my bag. I did no baking at the weekend, and as much as I have the urge to break forth my creative kitchen talents when I get home, and produce some chocolate chip cookies and possibly even some species of cake, I know that this is unlikely to happen, on account of my well-documented aversion to Doing Things when it’s dark. Tea for tonight should be shepherd’s pie, but I used both the casserole dishes last night, and I’ll have to wash them first. How do we have about a dozen mixing bowls and only two casserole dishes? How, Englebert?
And the question which I think we must all face at this juncture of the morning is, could I be any more whingily pathetic? I think, on close examination of the facts as presented before the court, the answer is a resounding no.
And the question which I think we must all face at this juncture of the morning is, could I be any more whingily pathetic? I think, on close examination of the facts as presented before the court, the answer is a resounding no.
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