11am
My alarm is always something I ignore at the weekends but the doorbell is not, that sound is associated with packages and posties - like a dog would get excited about walkies. I am thrown into an instant state of searching, where are my trousers? What can I get away with? It has been known, in desperate circumstances, for me to accept a package in a dressing gown with no cord, how do you sign? I work it out.
This morning was different, when I got to the door after running and nearly killing myself on 3 flights of stairs I look through the peeper, a last minute safe guard against religious nut-cases, to find it’s vacant. There is nobody nervously swaying side to side with a jumbo package, all I can see is an ice laden Nissan. Still, I’m fully aware it took me a full 2 minutes to find suitable clothes so I open the door and realise how amazing all the ice looks on the road but then I notice some cold breath escaping from behind the hedge - “Hello?” I shout and then I’m confronted with a woman in her late twenties, she’s apologising profusely and then asks “I’m from More magazine, I want to know why all Lily Allens neighbours are selling their houses?”.
I realise there is no package, not even any religious nuts. I’m suddenly aware of my bare feet but I don’t care because I’m staring at what I believe is the source of rot that reduces peoples minds into simple work robots. Absolute trash gossip magazines, I considered giving false evidence but I decide the truth is duller that anything they’d write - “Lily Who?”. Now let me get back to bed.
