Although physically aroused, my mind remains numb and without thought. It may be seven forty five, and the bus leaves in ten minutes, I do not feel rushed in my naked state as I moan to the bathroom, scratching that which is irritating. My attempt to smarten myself my self up fails, and I settle for stroking my hair on end, no doubt it will be interpreted as fashion, not laziness.
The pain in my stomach for the attention of something fried and greasy, is growing by the minute. I mustn’t give in. Bond wouldn’t give in. Oh no, he would remain strong in the face of adversity, stiff upper lip and all that, then he’d make love with the gorgeous, virginal, man-hating lesbian, whom he entrances with but a flick of an eyebrow and a sharp quip.
But I am not Bond, contrary to what my dreams may indicate, a place I shall return to on the bus. To block out this pain, I bring into action my C.D player, and the musical genius of John, Paul, George and Ringo to lighten my usual, stoned morning being. I poorly imitate ‘here comes the sun’ through the medium of humming as I approach father’s room for dinner money, yet don’t go in. With my nostrils as sharp as they are this morning, I fear I would lose consciousness.
I fly out of the door, the crisp bite of the air bringing my senses to optimum levels. I begin to ‘peg it’ Ewan McGregor style as seen in ‘Trainspotting’, my mind being suppressed by the inspiring lyrics of the Beatles finest, allowing me to run as if being hunted, for the sanction of the bus. One hundred yards to go I flag down the Bus, as I would not make the stop before it.
The bitter shed-like qualities of the bus fail to provide the warmth usually associated with leaving behind the winter air and entering shelter. I curl up like a prawn cracker being tossed into the deep fat, and conserve my energy in this infernal cold. I do not wish to socialise. I am not physically up to it. My spirit has taken leave with the sun. Thus, I hide behind the shield of my sunglasses, turn my head, and again return to my psyche, to battle evil and tyranny, quote cheesy lines and make love to beautiful women, for I am Bond once more.
Harumph. This is the sound, for that is all it is, that passes my lips when I am rudely awakened by a jolt, comparable to that the titanic felt no doubt, when she was driven into an iceberg. I feel pity for the iceberg, for my head hums, as if hit by a cruise ship. Most unpleasant. And to boot, Blofeld is still at large. I worry not; law is second lesson, a chance to dream.
Still I bear a grudge at the cad who caused my disruption. I always presumed drivers could drive. Though it is said that presumption is the mother of all cock-ups. I feel a bad mood coming on. I have a vendetta with the driver, and the sun has returned to taunt me. Does it not now my choice of song earlier was a mere coincidence? With my eyes under this onslaught of light, sleep is impossible. I resort to looking around my prison; the only person worth talking to is engaged with some well-endowed female. She is talking at him. A one way conversation, he appears more eager to talk to the well endowed bits. A scream runs through my body. It’s my mind deciding to join me in the conscious world, and has realised, as I already know, how bleak my situation is. My inner jukebox is scratched; I no longer have the musical cover that shielded me from this nastiness.
As I am concluding that the day can not get worse, my mind is fogged by the smell of cellophane, or Shitty Bridgwater as my phillosophical fellow students have branded it. In this moment of clarity, I suddenly understand alcoholics. This is foul.
I disembark my prison in a drunken stagger, and moan toward college. My body being pounded by temperature and light, as well as grumping, my stomach performs a 720, and is now throwing a paddy. The canteen provides a rest bite, the comfort of a sausage and bacon roll erases my ill thoughts. I am half-content. But this is expected. Why should this morning be any different, Monday to Friday is the proverbial scratched record, always the same. My mind is entertaining itself with Mr McCartney explaining the day before today, my body on autopilot, cruise control taking me to my history room.
I grace the classroom with my presence, not a head turns. Ahh, I am late. I perform the walk of shame, though my lecturer dryly conveys good morning, as opposed to Anne Robinson’s sentence of goodbye, yet it still carries the same sting.
I collapse into my chair, my stomach eager to embark upon more acrobatics when my eyes survey my task of the morning. Feeling resilient, I nod to my entire table, sit back and don my eyewear. I have not the will power to wait for law, nor the drive to perform at this moment in time. A secret agent once more, I return to my dreams.