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THE INANIMATE CONSPIRACY

Irritation of the proboscis interrupts the slumber and a hand scrambles from under the bedding to scratch the end of the nose like a Trapdoor spider investigating an alien presence at its nest. A second tickle and the hand re-emerges to compress the offending puffed-up duvet into a valley that exposes a new morn and the world beyond as the eyes open unenthusiastically.

Peering down the valley to the horizon beyond, ‘Excalibur’ hovers unsupported  like a celestial crucifix, the brilliance of its blade glowing like a heavenly fire partially blinding the eye to its hilt of gold bound with white silken thread.

Within nanoseconds activated brain cells compute the true source of the imagery to a compilation of the low winter sun streaming through the unclosed slit in the drapes, the centre curtain pole fitting, nets and the fleur-de–lis pattern on the curtain material.

            Fascination triggers several determined, creative attempts to reconstruct the apparition to no avail as reality forces its way to the front of the, ‘what to do next’ queue.

            The right arm stretches out to confirm the presence of the bed partner. Although Mary is faced away, the slight rise and fall of her polyester filled cocoon confirms that all must be well, as she is efficiency personified, the diary, file-o-fax and trusted keeper of the ‘Old Faithful’ alarm clock.

            The head rolls back onto the soft, inviting pillow, ready to succumb to the temptation of five more minutes of sleep. Curiosity rather than concern rolls the eyes left towards the picture-frame digital clock on the bedside table. At such a short distance the bright, blue letters and digits appear so large that an image of Times Square flickers through the mind consuming an unwarranted proportion of the limited concentration available to deal with key data.

          S A T 8 0 7 a m

            Saturday, seven minutes past eight!

            In the mirrored wardrobe door the eyes catch a glimpse of a facial expression that bears a close resemblance to that depicted in Edvard Munch’s painting ‘The Scream’. 

            “My giddy aunt” is the first expression of concern, a good starting point, providing ample scope for expansion to the more profound profanities and expletives that will undoubtedly ensue.

            The bedding flies back as the legs swing sideways and the torso adopts a somewhat unstable, vertical posture. The dog springs up from her prone position near the bed like a burnt slice of bread from the toaster, the look in her eyes confirming her awareness of the presence of an unwelcome ‘human mood’. Ears back, she quickly removes herself from the path of the mood and its owner, burying herself in her basket with nose tucked between her front paws and her dark brown eyes tracking her master’s face as he storms to the bathroom.

            “Damn! Damn! Damn! Damn!”

            A brief but longing glance at the toilet seat is combined with an implicit decision that all bodily functions must be postponed until they become unstoppable. The electric shower over the bath refuses to warm up as quickly as normal, and its lukewarm reception is only serving to wake the consciousness to the fact that it is Saturday. Why does it have to be a Saturday, the busiest day of the week? Once behind schedule there is no chance of catching up and if Chelsea is playing at home….

            The soap ejects itself from a wet hand for the third time and manages two ‘Wall of Death’ circuits of the bath before being recaptured.

            “Damn!  Blast!”                                                                                               

            'Is there enough petrol in the car to get to work?'

            The left leg steps out of the bath tub underestimating the drop to the floor and its heavy, destabilising contact with the crumpled bath mat sends the right arm on a vital mission to grab something. The shower curtain parts company with all but one of its curtain rings and hangs torn and distressed, clinging to the bath panel for comfort.

With an unwarranted 70 decibel clunk, the big hand of the wall clock moves onto the quarter past.

Hell’s bells! Why, why, why? The road works on the motorway start today. That’s bound to mean hold-ups.

As the bathroom cabinet door opens a can of Gillette shaving foam leaps from the shelf and cleverly calculating its trajectory, scores a direct hit on a vulnerable little toe, generating a loud, unmentionable oath that quite shocks the young paper-girl passing the bathroom window who practically destroys the sports section as she jams the local paper through the letterbox and scampers back up the driveway to avoid any repeat performance.

The razor that has behaved impeccably all year decides that a tiny nick just above the Adam’s apple is the order of the day; whilst the toothbrush shows considerable agility by managing to shift in the hand at just the right moment to send the brush head zooming past the target molar and down the throat, making the ensuing swear words indiscernible over the choking and spluttering.

A five yard dash back to the bedroom and a cursory look at the time reveals a countdown of only 4 minutes to store opening.

The wardrobe door slides open to reveal a total absence of working trousers. Mary always seems to have one pair in the wash and the brown pair are on the sewing box waiting to have a button sewn on the waist band. But where are the blue ones? They were clean on yesterday.

Mary would not appreciate the hi-jack of the best; well, come to that, the only suite trousers. But at this stage of events, desperate measures are required.

How come shirt buttons, watch straps and shoe laces are so easy to fasten on a nice, sunny day when all is right with the world and trousers rarely resist a foot’s passage through to the hole at the end of the leg?

Calm down. This is not the end of the world.

Handkerchief, wallet, keys, mobile? Ready for the off!

The red alarm button is down on Mary’s alarm clock, its raison d’etre totally undermined by a mere touch of a single finger, what has gone wrong? The brain runs through possible scenarios involving Mary and the clock. A brief thought, hastily assembled by the self preservation department of the brain pops up like the two shilling tab on an old fashioned cash register, but the idea of trying to share the blame for being late evaporates in an instant. Mary just may have had a really bad night and dropped off again after cancelling the alarm.

No husband should go to work without giving his wife a kiss.

As the body stoops and the head lowers, the third scrap of blood stained toilet paper detaches itself from the neck and floats to the floor.

A kiss is planted on Mary’s relaxed cheek. She stirs, and very bleary-eyed, she glances at the clock without reaction. With the tip of her tongue moistening her dry lips; words typical of her practical wisdom come forth.

“After 45 years, I thought you deserved a lie-in on the first day of your retirement.