A Day In The Life – The Beatles
It was half-past seven in the morning, according to my alarm clock. I woke from a rather peculiar dream, and eased myself out of bed. I shuffled across the landing to the bathroom – I’m really not a morning person – and stood in front of the bathroom mirror. Lord knows what I do when I’m asleep, because every morning, my hair has that ‘dragged through a hedge backwards’ look about it. And every morning, like now, I had to fight it with a comb and water just to flatten the damned thing. But, after a successful battle, I looked fairly presentable, so I headed downstairs. I sauntered into the kitchen and made myself a cup of coffee. I sat at the kitchen counter and noticed the clock on the microwave was flashing. Puzzled, I looked at the clock on the wall. It was almost nine o’clock!! I abandoned my coffee and grabbed my coat and woolly hat – it was a frosty mid-January day, after all – and rushed out of the door, slamming it behind me. I looked down the street and could see the bus about to arrive at my stop. I legged it down the street and just about made it. I emptied change into the bus drivers little tray, and he handed me my ticket without a word. He knew me, and I knew he was a miserable bugger.
I climbed the stairs to the top deck and found a quiet seat on my own. I took out a cigarette, and was about to light it, when a city-type with pinstripe suit and overcoat tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to the ‘No Smoking’ sign stuck to the window by my shoulder. I shrugged and put my lighter back in my coat pocket.
I made it to work, and sat in my cubicle with the morning paper. I saw the headline about a car crash which killed a guy who was a member of the House of Lords. Below it was a particularly gruesome picture of the wreck, and in spite of myself, I couldn’t help but laugh at the bystanders who appeared to be craning for a better view of the carnage. I turned the page and read a few more stories that were of little interest to me. I stopped at the film review section and was grabbed by a review of a new film about the British Army in the Second World War. The critic was pretty scathing, but on reading the review, it had been based on a book I’d read and enjoyed, so I made a mental note to go and see it.
I was briefly interrupted by work tasks, but when I returned to the paper, I happened to find a bizarre story about the number of potholes in Blackburn, Lancashire. Four thousand, apparently, which if added together, would fill the Albert Hall. It was in a newspaper article, so it must be true, right?