I wonder if Russell Brand had any idea just how much debate and analysis he would ignite when he shoved his wrecking ball off through the political sphere last week. Every wannabe journalist, writer and political commentator with an internet connection has weighed in on Brand’s controversial disillusionment with British politics, myself included. And in fact, I’m currently working on another Brand flavoured blog hopefully coming your way in the next few days.
As part of the Guardian’s ‘Write a Book in Thirty Days’ drive I have been reading authors’ ‘A Day in the life…’ with the reassurance that everyone finds it difficult to squeeze some writing into their day to day life. Duly inspired I decided to write my own ‘Day in the life’ but it somehow became a ‘Morning in the life’. This much productivity and mental thought before Philip and Holly have taken to the ITV stage of a morning is very unusual and not a typical day whatsoever.
I wake uncharacteristically early, before my flatmate has left to catch his 7.30am train to his real job. I’m rested, but it feels like another night of tossing and turning, partly caffeine induced, partly because I still haven’t gotten round to putting up curtains in my room. Achy shoulders. Must get a mattress topper. Vague images of the night’s dreams – my mother sitting by a sickbed, bringing her tea, then later, images of Batman and Robin fleeing a building as the police turn up – wait, were they on the rob? Surely not…
Wide awake by 8am I lift my phone, a few unimportant emails, an unexpected Facebook message from a very old, once very dear friend, I will have to mull that one over. On to the news. I am still romantically fond of the physical, awkward to fold on the bus, print-stained fingers, actual newspaper, but a combination of laziness and living in cheap, cold digs mean that I am easily converted to anything that allows me to begin my day without actually getting out from under the covers.
I browse through the BBC and Guardian apps, save any stories that spark an interest or an urge to share, make some notes, vow to actually write them in the course of the day, inevitably delete the link from Evernote (another handy convenience I’ve been converted to in recent months) in a few weeks.
By the time my alarm goes off at 8.45am I am already contemplating breakfast. This is very rare, early mornings are extraordinary for me. I usually don’t finish work until after eleven. I am a night owl, which means I rarely start writing until after sundown. Inspiration never really hits until after 10pm and the real magic or clarity doesn’t kick in until around 1am. Last night after a few hours struggle, I had a breakthrough with a troubling character around midnight, something clicked, I wrote frantically for twenty minutes, getting it all down on paper before the magic dried up, and then felt immediately exhausted. I managed a few pages of the very brilliant novel I’m currently reading (My Dream of You by Nuala O’Faolain if you’re interested) and then succumbed to dreams of mum and batman (not always typical I promise).
With a recent addition to our little family home, I am now learning to incorporate cat care into my morning routine, which unfortunately today means emptying a litter tray before I’ve put the kettle on the boil or brushed my teeth. I reassure myself that my mother has probably already done this for the five cats at home over an hour ago – but then I remember, it’s half term, she’s probably still in bed, Dad will be up, let the dog in to curl up at the foot of the bed, he’d have brought her tea and cereal, and she will be reading a bit of something before she gets up and takes on the cat litter. It’s a pleasant thought, to know for once, I am probably up and active before my mother, I reassure myself once is probably enough, I can lie in tomorrow guilt free.
Cat fed and watered, teeth brushed, Monday deemed a bad hair day (just two days till payday, then I can get it chopped…) and kettle boiled. I stack up the dishes I avoided during yesterday’s hangover, collect up any other artefacts of the weekend. By a quarter past nine I am at my desk (on the sofa) with a brew and BBC News. I make more notes. Steve, the cat, has taken up position on the windowsill watching the traffic on Great George Street. (Steve’s real name is Mimsy, but I feel it emasculates him, so I’m calling him Steve, he seems ok with it.)
More news. Teenage boy missing. Ban on Ash trees. Pasta bake for dinner today I think.
Usually by now I would be dragging myself out of bed after three alarms, and preparing for the weekly Media Team meeting at the Biennial offices – today however I am working from home, trying to sort out a faulty electricity metre which will no doubt ending up costing a fortune. Nearly payday.
My appetite slowly returns since brushing my teeth, and my mind turns to breakfast once again. And a conversation at work last week, about the benefits of both pre- and post-breakfast teeth brushing – the important issues you discuss during a quiet nine hour shift in a bar with no windows.
Nine hour days are the norm now that I am a contracted member of staff at LIPA Bar. A three day weekend, a four day working week, sometimes five. AFDs (All Fucking Days, for those outside the hospitality industry.) An odd way to work but a welcome structure to the week after a summer of discontent. Clocks went back yesterday, officially winter, chill in the air but nothing compared to the storm hitting the east cost of America this morning. Shan’t complain. Actually, weather looks promising.
American presidential campaigns. Vote early, vote often as they say at home. Afghanistan’s first female rapper – the new age revolutionary? Steve is on the move, watching me through the net curtain.
Steve overturns kitchen bin. I overturn a mug of tea over the coffee table. First moment of greatness today. Thankfully the other tablecloth is freshly cleaned and folded on the side. Kettle on (again). In a pot this time, separates us from the beasts. Mushrooms browned. Bacon sizzled. Bagel toasted. Mango chopped. Breakfast. How very cosmopolitan of you, I can hear my dad. Wonder how he’s getting on with the digital switchover. Must be like Christmas, more than six channels to shout at.
Breakfasts. There’s a FoodLink feature in there. Make a note.
Mental To Do List formulating. Steve watching me eat. No, Steve. More news. Annual migration of farm animals through central Madrid. Endearing idea. Age old right exercised, tradition celebrated. I need a holiday. Scenes from Hurricane Sandy making itself known on the Maryland coast. I was in Maryland. Over ten years ago! Huge waves. Must be nice to watch from a safe place. Vivid memory of perching among sand dunes in Donegal watching huge waves thrash against the beach. And a late night barbeque on the beach, was that the same time? Were there fireworks? I haven’t seen a beach all year, not since Blackpool last summer, hardly counts. Didn’t even get my feet wet.
10am and not a wain washed. Must get dressed. Just finish my tea. Headlines are on now anyway. Jesus, I really am turning into my mother.