When you’re that geared up for something, like a kid on Christmas Eve, you know deep-down inside that it’s just going to be one long day of bad jokes, paper hats and cold brussel sprouts.

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“Bitch”

Kicking off my boots I slumped onto my bed, filled with despair and tears in my eyes.

SMASH

Instinctively (was it the training?), I pulled a pillow over my head as I heard the unmistakable sound of fractured metal chiming against the walls and floor, like a cruelly daemonic Big Ben. As silence returned, I removed the pillow and groped for the bedside light. Shielding my eyes from the glare of the lamp, I stole a glance at the corner where my full-length Art Deco mirror was – had been. Inherited from my ‘spinster’ Great Aunt Frances – I’d always been her favourite – I hoped upon hope that it was still okay.

Despair turned to rage as I rolled to the side of the bed, pulled myself into an upright position and inspected the mess. Across the floor, an infinite number of metal shards, twisted, torn, ripped apart – like me!

“Fuck FUCK FUUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKKK!”

The last expletive was uttered with such ultimate force that I was certain to get a lecture from the Battleaxe (my landlady) in the morning. But, oh, for Christ’s sake! Not only had tonight been the worst date in History – yes, worse than crawling through a loo window – now I’d subjected myself to seven more years of bad luck.

Bad luck? I’d been suffering from that all day.

Pausing mid-thought, suddenly realising that it must be more than really late, I stared over at my alarm clock: 4:15 – ugh! My insides wrenched at the notion of getting up in four hours. Fuck it! Half-drunk from exhaustion, and the despair of tonight’s fiascos, I staggered to the lounge, barely caring if my feet were cut to ribbons. I needed a drink and was damned sure something was left in the bottle of Luxardo I’d started that Saturday night – that Saturday night I first spoke to her.

I couldn’t bring myself to turn on the light so blindly banged about in the room, vainly searching for the bottle in the dim beam of light that crept through my curtains. Giving up and deciding just to throw myself head-first – no, arse-first, it’s more my style – I landed on the cushions, immediately yelping in pain: so that’s where the bugger was hiding! Back bruised, but insides joyfully burning from the after taste, I sank back onto the soft, leather cushions.