When I've recovered a little from the grief of having woken up, I wipe my tears away with the sleeve of my pyjama top, take my watch from the bedside table and wind it forward five hours so that it's one o'clock in the afternoon. As the old saying goes, 'morning is the most dreadful time of day.' I suppose they say that because it's so far away from night-time, which is the best time of day, as you can see less of the horror that surrounds us. Unless, of course, you have some kind of electronic lighting system, which are admittedly rather prevalent in this day and age.
As it is now one o'clock in the afternoon, it is time for lunch. I eat a variety of things for lunch, because 'variety is the spice of life', but it is always accompanied with a tumbler of schnapps, because schnapps puts me at ease and makes my breath deliciously sweet.
Lunch usually takes me to about twenty past one, still an awfully long way away from night-time. I then go and sit on the sofa in the lounge, clutching my hair very tightly in my hands and displaying a pained expression on my face, just in case somebody is staring at me through the window and is unsure of my present state of mind.
When I've had enough of doing that, I look desperately around the room for something to do. Today for example, I saw the hoover and thought to myself, 'I'll hoover the entire house! That will pass the time and tire me out so that I can sleep soundly tonight!' But then I immediately remembered that hoovering is the most boring and unnecessary of all human pursuits and, in a fit of rage, I carefully took the hoover apart and laid it on the carpet in hundreds of tiny little pieces. Then I went next door and posted every single one of the tiny little pieces through my neighbour's letter box, before running back home and closing the door quietly behind me.
Within a few minutes, there was a noise at my own letter box. It was my neighbour posting all the tiny little pieces of hoover back to me before running back to his house. So I in turn picked up all the tiny little pieces and took them back to post through my neighbour's letter box.
This continued back and forth for an hour or so until he eventually stopped bringing the pieces back. We are both very shy men, and would never dream of talking to anybody or anything like that, but when it comes to not wanting to be in possession of a disassembled hoover, we are both very stubborn. But I am the most stubborn, or the stubbornest.
Being more stubborn than my next door neighbour gives me no satisfaction. It might surprise some of you to read this, but being more stubborn than your next door neighbour is completely pointless. And besides, having had time to think about things, I believe I may have been a little hasty. When I've plucked up the courage I shall go and ask my neighbour to give me my hoover back. I don't doubt for a second that he'll return it to me at once, because he's a very compliant man.
So today, what with all the toing and froing with the hoover, I managed to pass time a little more successfully, although it was still only a little after three by the time everything had quietened down again.
After sitting for a while to think about hopelessness, despair and the possibility of cancelling my subscription to a magazine which I no longer read thoroughly enough to justify the financial outlay, I'd had enough of the day, so I wound my watch forward until it showed one o'clock in the morning, which is my bedtime.
It's about five minutes past one now, and I'm lying in bed about to finish writing the last part of an account of my usual daily routine, in which I have referenced some particular things that happened today. It's still very light outside considering it's after one o'clock in the morning.
But I must go to sleep, because tomorrow I will be celebrating yet another birthday. I will be two hundred and seventy two years old.
