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My Day - Personal Narrative

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My Day - Personal Narrative It is said that 666 is the number of the beast. This is completely wrong. It's 7:00. A pair of words glide slowly through the mists, floating up and down like a newspaper drifting across an empty street carried by a fresh breeze. They approach me, and gradually it occurs to me that the words are "up-town". They are shortly followed by another word, then another, until slowly a number of these words merge together to form a sentence. This sentence sits in the back of my mind for a few seconds like an embarrassed school-boy waiting outside the head-masters office, before eventually gathering the courage needed to break forward. The sentence formed is "Up-town girl, she's been living in an up-town world". My conscious mind slams into gear, missing the clutch and threatening to stall, before the association it has been looking for pops into being, bringing with it all the pain and confusion of a large nuclear warhead - Westlife. My head shoots up off the pillow faster than a bullet from a gun and I turn towards the offending object: my radio alarm clock. Slowly it fuses into a fuzzy mess that my feeble eyes seem to think is focus, and a groan escapes my lips as I see those dreaded numbers - 7:00. I usually lie and reflect for a little while, deciding whether or not to pull the pillow over my head or feign death, but eventually the sound of whining superstar wannabes forces me to throw my covers off in aggravation and jump out of bed. I begin the torturous expedition across the Hiroshima that is my room to my radio, careful to avoid the various jagged objects that viciously position themsel... ... middle of paper ... ... top bunk for their nightly crumpling. This is sometimes assisted by one of the cats, usually Felony (my 20 year old half sister Jessica's cat), sometimes Tiddles (my 17 year old sister Stella's cat), but never Maximillian - my Dad's fat cat, who sleeps on top of the washing machine, or in the dog's bed if the mood suits him. I take no responsibility for any of the names, as I'm not crazy, just a little disturbed. If any of the cats do decide to intervene in the nightly crumpling process, I have to search out some (relatively) clean clothes the next morning. As soon as all of this is dealt with I climb into my bed and either read or make desperate attempts at sleep. When it finally comes, I don't usually notice until the next morning when that noise interrupts again, and that ghastly green glow returns to haunt me…
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