Getting up has never been one of my strong points. My mum had to threaten to pour a glass of water over me on numerous occasions in an attempt to get me out of bed when I was a kid, and I’ve overslept on many an occasion. I think it’s fair to say that I’m ‘not a morning person’. Compared to The Special One though, I’m a positive bundle of joy. That’s not difficult admittedly – the occupants of America’s high-security prisons are more approachable than my beloved wife when she’s not got a coffee inside her first thing in the morning.
As you can imagine, neither one of us particularly likes getting up at 6.30am to wake The Eldest (himself ‘not a morning person’) and get him on his way to school. Thankfully this week, schoolkids have been off on
holidayvacation, which means a blissful extra hour in bed. Or at least it should be blissful. The truth is that the disruption to my routine seems to have made me more dazed and confused than ever before.
This morning, I turned the apartment upside down in an ultimately fruitless search for my watch. I never even used to wear a watch, but have somehow managed to train myself into putting one on in the morning, and felt practically naked for the rest of the day without it. Yet when I returned home this evening, there it was in the place that I usually put it, even though I feel sure I must have looked there at least seventeen times this morning.
On Tuesday, I managed to leave the house without applying Fudge. Now, any of you that have had the misfortune to inadvertently catch a glance of me in my pre-hair product application phase in the morning will know that I’m not a pretty sight without Fudge in my hair. To be honest, I’m not much of a pretty sight when I have got Fudge in my hair, but at least I don’t make young children point and stare in disgusted wonderment as I do when I can’t be bothered to use the sticky Australian hair gunk. I look approximately twelve when I don’t put Fudge in my hair. Admittedly I only look fifteen when I’ve got it in, but that’s a side issue.
[Incidentally, I must have been asked for ID on about six separate occasions in Tennessee this weekend. Which is pretty embarrassing for somebody who’s actually 34. Although not as embarrassing as watching on as The Special One was forced to explain what a British passport was to staff at an
off licenceliquor store.]
I only discovered my lack of Fudge when I looked in the window of the local gym, rueing the $70 a month that I spend on membership without actually going inside the door, before finally catching a glimpse of my flat-haired reflection. Strangely, the speed that I achieved as I legged it back to the apartment was far in excess of anything I ever achieved on the treadmill.
My early morning confusion reached its nadir on Wednesday. One of the few joys of being a commuter is being able to listen to Russell Brand’s Radio 2 podcast. Back in London, I could generally spot fellow listeners by the otherwise inexplicable guffaws during the early morning rush hour. Here, rather than my laughter marking me out as a potential Brand listener, I rather fear I’m singled out as a possible escaped mental patient. So when I received a tap on the shoulder from a fellow A train passenger, I wearily removed one earphone and awaited a diatribe against care in the community patients.
Of course, it turned out that I had done my shirt up wrongly so that all my buttons were out of sequence, with the left hand side of my collar up near my eyeballs and the right hand side somewhere near my navel. In retrospect, I regret being forced to draw attention to myself by asking my good Samaritan to repeat herself three times in an attempt to understand what she was saying, given that it produced an even larger audience to view me shamefacedly unbuttoning my shirt to get myself back into some semblance of order.
I’m having a lie-in this weekend, I can tell you. Getting out of bed just seems too risky these days.