Sorry I’m late — I got here when I felt like it.
As a slave to the paymaster, it is my duty to haul my face out of bed five days a week to sit in front of a screen, counting the hours until wine o’clock.
My morning routine is mostly swallowed by dithering in front of the wardrobe, trying on at least three outfits before landing on the this will do look.
I knew my day was cursed when I reached my fifth outfit before I could confidently step out the front door.
Time was ticking, and there was a cold, well-lit cubicle waiting for me.
I fast-paced walked — half-skipped — to the train station, cursing the people in front of me. Every cell in my body screaming get out of the way, I need to hurry so I can sit for eight hours.
As I watched my train draw into the station, about two hundred metres ahead of me, my half-awake brain wondered:
Could I make it?
It wasn’t a conscious decision.
It was the people around me who started to run — and like a pack animal, I joined them.
I shot down two flights of stairs, leaping into the carriage just as the doors began to close.
Made it.
I was travelling with such momentum that I hit the opposite door with enough force for two people to immediately stand and offer me a seat.
I sat down in silence. After a nod of thanks, I avoided eye contact, pulled out my iPhone, and pretended none of this had happened.
Mortified.
I won’t be able to walk properly for the rest of the day, but I wasn’t late for work.
Not today, anyway.