When you leave your keys, lunch money, Blackberry and homework behind at home, you know your day will be downhill from there. Leaving the house with buttons on shirt in the incorrect place; wearing half a shoe – only in a shoe shop will you be able to conform to the half-shoe rule, but I digress; and my absolute favourite, wearing different patterned socks – one white, the other patterned in some sort of delicious looking doughnut which clearly isn’t mine!
The rest of my day was pretty dreadful. Watching a film where chavs succeeded in crimes, re-writing my 2000 word essay and learning I had a sociology exam in a weeks time.
Then the end of the day. Rain. Pelting rain.
I ran to the station without being shot by the drops and get home fairly normally. Or so I thought.
At the bottom of the staircase leading towards my home, the resident drunk Irishman was, well, drunk or panini’d. If you stayed within his vicinity, you will be heckled. He is normally a nice fellow like all Irish people when they’re sober. I still can’t put my finger why he was drinking coffee, some sort of beer, wearing a bicycle helmet and one knee pad.
No stairs then (I never take the stairs anyway – upwards to be specific) and opted for the lift as usual. Got to my door – a few knocks and I’m in!
So I can’t get in my home because a thick plank of wood with a handle, letterbox, door number, keyhole and two hinges block my way. So, er, what to do? It is roughly 4PM or something – nearing 5 I think. Not really sure of the exact time but I did have the book Death of A Salesman in my hand, so I proceed downstairs and read.
Oh wait, angry and utterly farm’d (drunk) Irishman. I can hear his voice shouting abuse to the next neighbour eerily echoing up the staircase. So much for Plan A.
Plan B was to stand and read. I would normally sit on the stairs but due to the number of sick people I have to sit and deal with in college and at home, I better not rely on luck and my immune system.
I began where I left off in college and finished the play. That took half an hour. So I decided to re-read the whole book. Done.
More angry Irish echoes – lets read the book again! Neighbours begin to give me strange looks while I situate myself on the stairs (I pretend I’m going up or down the stairs depending on my location). More Irish echoes accompanied my rapid footsteps to get in the lift.
As time passed, the twitch in my eye began to look like an insect’s wing in action. Time now is 7:45PM! For the love of all things sweet and fat, let me in own home!
When you get genuinely desperate, the pleads are rewarded with a reply….or my brother skipping a la Michael McIntyre towards the door.
He can sense the anger in my eye and unsurprisingly, the funny side.
“3 (or 4. I don’t really know) HOURS!” I say in a voice mixed with a strange combination of anger, campness and Irishness.
“You could have done your homework Nielsen.”
My mum did have a point (!)