Two days in, and I’m not doing very well. At all. I set my alarm on Monday to get up bright and early, all the better to get to work at an impressive hour. The alarm went off at 7am, I got up. Pottered around wondering why no one else was awake. Headed out into the freezing cold, pitch black day, spotting two foxes on my lonely walk to the station.
Wimbledon station, usually a bustling hub at 8am, was deserted. Riiiiight. I checked my watch. It wasn’t 8am. It was 6 o’clock in the fekkin’ morning. I hadn’t changed my cell phone alarm to UK time, so the 7am SA time that had pinged me out of slumber was actually 5am UK time.
What an EEEEEEeeeejit!*
But I’m a game sort of bird**. I crack on.
So, alarms duly sorted for day two, I woke up at the more amiable hour of 7am UK time this morning. Only to fall down the frikkin’ stairs. London houses are typically narrow and the staircases steep. I was in socks and stumbling downstairs, half asleep, with a very large unwieldy handbag. Clearly, balance is not at its most effective in those situations.
Cue large, spectacular bruises and a very sore bum.
And then this morning, pottering around the office, I stubbed my toe on a large, unexpected piece of floor.
Enough with the pain and humiliation.
On the bright side, I walk down South Park Road to get to the station. Which prompts me to pull my scarf over my head and ask myself in strange voices if Cartman’s mum really was in German Schizer movies.
The giggling gets me at least two blocks.*** But the foxes look at me funny.
*Irish for plonker
**Keeerist. I’ve only been here four days and I’ll talking like a right limey.
***don’t have gloves (see * number one). The walk is long. My fingers are not happy.