Time For Work

6:00 am. The persistent alarm clock awakes a million bodies, across every region in Britain, to signal the great struggle of awakening. Around three quarters of these are hard working citizens of the British isles ready for another hard days harvest of wages. Around thirty minutes from his place of work,( at walking pace) a man who shall remain nameless stirs. He slammed his fist clumsily upon the snooze button; 5 minutes to gather his thoughts. What numbers shall be thrown at him today to solve? To place through orders that have no meaning to him. To meet dead-lines which to him, have no importance. He rubbed his dry hands through his thick hair and wondered, Would anybody notice his absence?

These thoughts consistently run through this mans head, every morning, of every day, before the great mountainous struggle of standing upright. 5 minutes had passed; this was clear as each identical, uniformed beep and blink of the clock bored a tunnel into his brain, edging their way ever nearer to insanity. Time for work.

He opened his eyes for the first time today. They became mingled with blurred images and a stream of tears - a resistance against the attacking light upon his eyes. Clumsy footed and bearing the look of a modified Frankenstein, he pressed the button of the kettle. He placed his favourite green cup on the table, and poured the boiling water into it, followed by two spoons of coffee granules, and three sugar. He took long inhaling sips from the cup, and his mind clicked into pace. Laying aside his half drank coffee, he pulled on his work suit, picked up his briefcase, and began his walk to work.

He clicked his door shut with a defying shove, and turned to face the wintered scene of his street. A blanket of frost had laid to rest upon all of the sleeping cars and houses yet to awake for the day. The man gazed down at his watch - 6:23; seventeen minutes to get to work. Each step the man took was with caution, for the pavement of this particular road was plagued with a series of cracks hard to avoid. Even the thought of standing upon one made the man shudder uncomfortably; but he knew the way well, for the path had become laden with his invisible footprints for many years now. Twisting and turning somewhat like a badly trained ballroom dancer, the man had reached the end of the cracked pavement; it was a clear walk to work from here.

Upon his walk to work, he would occasionally peer left into the local shops, to see what they had to offer - books; clothes; microwaves and fridges were among the items he had laid his eyes upon this particular morning, but they never seemed to regularly change. Some form of imaginary black and white streamed down the balls of his eyes, and made him see colourless. This was his life, a black and white western film, with the solemn trumpet from a stereotypical shootout playing in the back of his mind.

He faced again to the horizon of the street, where his regular coffee stand sat; the man who had told him his name so many times stood and gazed expectantly at passer by’s. Every step he took the sounds of hot water slapping against an empty cup, and the sugar scraping against its jar came more and more into focus. A woman was purchasing a medium hot chocolate with a sprinkled top for an apparently reasonable price. It became apparent that the price was reasonable because the woman only offered her kindest foreign regards for it, trying her best for a British accent. He knew she wasn’t English because she spoke it far too well; each syllable dictated as they should be, and a vocabulary of utmost politeness were prime giveaways.

He had, at last reached his regular coffee stand, £1.50 for a large. Whilst waiting for his drink, the man would usually take this time to look around, to take in the great delights of an even greater Britain - the looming clouds; the ever persistent youths running amok in the town square (even at this time in the morning, he thought); the casual finger being waved in somebody or others face; the chewing gum floors paved to perfection. This was his life, his home, and as he began to sip the coffee mingled with polystyrene, a great sigh of desperation bore from the pit of his stomach… … another day of work.