A Day In The Life (standard:humor, 2377 words)
Author: BritGirl	Added: Mar 31 2003	Views/Reads: 3752/2588	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Just another manic Saturday

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

with the bags. 

After about fifteen minutes I began to feel distinctly annoyed. I was
convinced that everyone was staring at me, wondering why I was sitting 
on my own. The bench became more uncomfortable with each minute that 
passed. After twenty minutes Jo materialised out of the crowd with a 
grin on her face. ‘He's such a laugh!' She looked at me as if surprised 
that I was still there. ‘You should've come and said hello.' 

‘I was looking after the bags.' 

‘He wants me to go to the new cinema with him.' 

‘What? Now?' 

‘Yeah. Well, he's paying.' 

‘Hang on a sec,' I said, thoroughly confused. ‘Just who is this Dave
exactly?' 

‘Some bloke. A friend of Eddie's I think.' 

‘You think?' I asked in disbelief. ‘You mean he could be a psychopath or
something?' 

‘Oh no. He's got blond hair.' 

Jo stooped and began to scoop up bags. She glanced at me and said
casually, ‘You can come with us if you like.' The tone of her voice 
made it perfectly clear that this was the last thing she wanted. 

‘No it's all right,' I said, graciously. ‘I'll go home. I've got stuff
to do.' Jo was already walking off with the bags. 

‘I'll ring you later!' Her voice floated back to me over the heads of
the crowd. Scowling, I stomped off in the direction of the bus stop. 

I arrived just in time to see the bus I wanted pulling leisurely out of
the bus stop. I ground my teeth in frustration. A look at the timetable 
told me that I had fifteen minutes to wait for the next one. After ten 
minutes I felt as if my entire life had been spent waiting for buses. 
It finally arrived however, and I gratefully approached the driver and 
said, ‘Half to the Three Trees please.' 

He eyed me dubiously. ‘How old are you?' 

‘Fifteen.' 

‘Have you got an MK Metro under-sixteen pass?' I snorted. 

‘Of course not!' 

‘Well, I'm afraid you've got to pay full fare then.' 

‘But that's just-` I began, but then looked down the bus and met the
collective glare of several middle-aged ladies with shopping bags. I 
decided that discretion was the better part of valour and meekly handed 
over a pound coin. I took my seat and thought bitterly that the whole 
world was in a conspiracy against me. 

I arrived home in a terrible mood. I had spent the entire bus journey
meditating on just how awful my life was. As I opened the front door, 
my nostrils were assaulted by the smell of kippers. 

‘Just in time for lunch!' said my mother, brightly. ‘Kippers and rice!'
My mood worsened. 

Over lunch, my mother subjected me to the usual inquisition: which bus
had I caught, what time did I arrive, why hadn't I bought anything, did 
I have to attack my kipper so savagely? ‘It's a good job you got back 
when you did: on the dot of one o'clock. Lunch should always be served 
at one.' 

‘Oh yes,' I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘It has to be at one
o'clock. If it's late then the Great Pyramids will fall and all 
civilisation will be torn asunder.' My mum merely smiled and told me to 
get the pudding out of the oven. I put on the oven gloves and took the 
baking tray from the oven shelf. The pudding was a fruit pie, which 
looked distinctly smaller and less appetising than the picture on the 
box. I looked around for somewhere to put the tray but there was no mat 
available. ‘Mum!' I called. ‘Can you get me a mat?' My mum was bending 
down, with her head immersed in the fridge. 

‘Hang on a minute!' she called back. The oven gloves were rather old and
worn and my hands were becoming uncomfortably warm. 

‘Mum! Now would be good!' 

‘Mmmm.' That was all the response I got. My mother was still entirely
absorbed in the fridge. 

‘Okay! No rush! I'll just stand here and listen to the sound of my flesh
sizzling as it's seared off my hands!' My mother finally emerged from 
the fridge and tossed a mat in my direction, with the remark, 

‘There's no need to be sarcastic.' 

After lunch, I went upstairs with the intention of writing my English
essay. I switched on the computer and stared at the blank screen for a 
few minutes. After much thought, I typed my name and the title at the 
top of the page. I stared at the screen. I had a sincere belief that if 
I stared at the blankness long enough my English essay would 
materialise on its own, with no effort required from me. After 
prolonged consideration, I underlined the title. Minutes passed and 
then I removed the underline. I experimented with different font sizes, 
causing the title to spread over seven pages and then made it so small 
it looked like a line of dots. I looked at my watch and realised that 
in nearly half an hour I had accomplished nothing. I decided that the 
best course was to take a break for a while. I slumped down in front of 
my television. I flicked through the channels and found a black and 
white film that looked mildly interesting. I spent a long time trying 
to work out what the plot was. All it seemed to involve was a girl in 
Victorian dress fainting repeatedly in various different rooms. I 
watched with wonder, as each time she collapsed her elaborate hairstyle 
remained miraculously intact. 

When it finished, I got up and wandered downstairs where I found my mum
looking at a theatre programme. 

‘I think we should go and see this,' she said, pointing at a page. 

‘What it is it?' I asked, without enthusiasm. 

‘Its one of those nineteen-thirties things where they all run in and out
of french windows.' 

‘Sounds great.' 

A black depression had settled over me. I felt restless but had no
energy to do anything. Somehow I ended up watching television again. 
Only I wasn't really watching it. I paid no attention to what was 
happening on the screen. My mind was following its own thoughts. The 
phone ringing startled me out of my coma. The answering machine comes 
on after three rings and my mother is incapable of getting the phone. 
By the second ring I had managed to wrench open the door of my room. As 
it rang for the third time, I was already speeding down the hall 
towards it. I flung myself bodily over the last few metres, in an 
attempt to pick up the handset before the machine came on. 

Once I had disentangled myself from the flex and checked that I had not
broken any bones, I managed to place the handset next to my ear. 

‘Hi!' It was Jo. 

‘Hi. How was-` I broke off as I discovered my foot was wedged in the
wastepaper bin. 

‘Not that good really. Dave has the charisma of a courgette!' 

‘Uh-huh.' My foot stubbornly refused to come out of the bin. 

‘The film was okay though. But everyone died! Why does that always
happen in films?' 

‘Was it a horror film?' I asked, yanking the bin violently with my free
hand, whilst balancing on my other foot. 

‘Yeah. It was about a serial killer.' 

‘That might explain the high number of deaths,' I suggested.
‘Aaaarrrghh!' I cried out as the bin suddenly gave way and flew off my 
foot, causing me to topple over backwards. 

‘What are you doing?' 

‘It's the bin, you see,' I started to explain, but Jo interrupted. 

‘Well never mind that. I rang ‘cos I wanted to know if you were watching
Blind Date.' 

‘Is it on now?' I asked in amazement. Surely it couldn't be that late? 

‘Of course it is! Can you see your TV?' 

‘Hang on.' I hobbled over to my mum's desk and picked up the cordless
phone. I went back into my room and flicked through the channels until 
I saw Cilla Black grinning at me. 

‘Why am I watching this?' I wanted to know, as I massaged my aching
foot. 

‘You see him in the middle!' said Jo, excitedly, as the picture on the
screen changed to show three men sitting on stools. 

‘What about him?' 

‘Don't you think he's fit?' I stared critically at the man in question,
who was just informing the audience that he was Darren from Bolton. 

‘His mouth is too big. I prefer the third one.' 

‘Well you would. You always go for geeky types.' 

‘I do not!' I defended myself indignantly. 

We spent the next half an hour assessing the three men and predicting
which one Kelly from Manchester would choose. My mum poked her head 
round the door and looked at me questioningly and gestured towards the 
telephone. I mouthed the words, ‘she's paying!' at her. She smiled and 
did not trouble me again. 

‘Sorry for leaving you on your own by the way,' said Jo, carelessly. 

‘Oh, that's all right. I wanted to go home anyway.' 

‘Did you do your essay?' 

‘Nope. But it doesn't matter. I'll just say my printer is out of ink or
the computer has crashed or something.' 

‘Yeah. She's bound to swallow that.' 

An hour later, I emerged from my room in a much better mood. I nearly
collided with my mum who was staring at the bin with a puzzled 
expression. A large crack ran down the side of it. 

‘What happened?' she asked. I explained the unfortunate situation that
had arisen involving my foot and the bin. 

‘Just think what would have happened if I hadn't been able to get it
off,' I said. ‘I would have spent the rest of my life with a bin on the 
end of my leg! Like that bloke and the albatross.' 

‘Yes,' said my mum, looking at me with genuine concern. ‘Oh by the way,'
she called over her shoulder, as she began walking down the stairs, 
‘it's kippers again for tea. I hope you don't mind.' 

‘Not in the least,' I replied, grinning. I was feeling almost cheerful
again. Maybe life wasn't quite so bad after all. 


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