When it rains it really does like to pour.

 

So, for those that are having an absolute balls up of a day, let me enlighten you to a day of my own when everything was well and truly going tits up. We will start with the 3am wakeup call by the mouse that entered my room. I was the first person to move into our house, as my other housemates were currently on holiday and it was before my bedframe had arrived, so my mattress was well and truly floor level with the mouse. Whilst I would have loved to have been rather unbothered by the treacherous rodent that now resided in my room with me, I wasn’t. The lights came on and any neighbours that had peacefully been asleep, were awoken by my shrieks of bloody murder.

 

The fecker wouldn’t leave, so I spent the next half hour plugging up any gaps in my room, believing it could travel through the cracks of the walls like some super mutant mouse. I then found lots of newspaper and stood outside my bedroom door blocking up the cracks under the door with The Times. However, previous to this my door knob had fallen off, which earlier that day I had put by my bed. So unfortunately for me, once I had proudly studied the now blocked up crack under the door, I had indirectly locked myself out my room at 4am whilst the mouse camped out snugly in my room. 45 minutes later I accepted defeat and slept on the sofa in our TV room, in just pajama shorts, no phone and no way of being able to wake up unless I left the curtains open. I woke up at a guess of 7am and tried to open the bedroom door again with no success. I was going to need some help, however the only piece of clothing I had was a wet dress in the washing machine. So, at 7am I was now outside our neighbour’s house, in a wet dress wearing no shoes, without a scrap of makeup on- with a face only a mother could love. Being a resident of Brixton didn’t really help my case and it would be fair to conclude by any neighbours looking through their curtains that I was in fact the classic Brixton crack head scouting for drug money.

 

Anyway, I did manage to stop a poor unsuspecting neighbour and convince him that I did in fact live in the house a few doors down and that I was a damsel in distress- perhaps not the one he dreamed about- but I was very much in distress. He came with his tool box and after thirty whole minutes managed to open my door. Hurrah! So off I go to work, with barely a  couple hours of sleep in the bank, coffee in hand.

 

Which is where I went wrong. Gripping onto the tube pole, eyes barely open, I take a glug of coffee only for the lid to pop off and drown myself in coffee. I am actually in disbelief that I am having such a horrific morning, as is the rest of the tube who cannot help but laugh at my utter incompetence. I work in a corporate office, so walking in with an entire coffee on your no longer white shirt isn’t the most conventional thing to do. Head held high I defiantly continue my journey into work. I am so nearly there.

 

What is worse than seeing your ex? Seeing your ex’s best friend. Because ultimately, they will report back that they saw you. In an ideal world, you’re looking fabulous and you’re seemingly very together. In a cruel world, you have had no sleep, look worse than you ever have and have had a coffee explosion. So, what does one do in that situation when everything is going totally tits up?

 

You fucking run. Accept defeat- it is ok to do that sometimes. You can’t win every day. Go home recharge and then smash the next day.

 

And get a mouse trap.

 

 

Twenty Mile Club