This morning I got up at 5.50 in the morning. For those of you in doubt, yes, there is actually a 5.50 in the morning – I’m not pulling your leg.
I arrived at the gym at 6.30am for my kickboxing class. I only whacked myself in the face twice. That’s a good tally for any kickboxing session, let alone one in the morning.
It wasn’t exactly in a good mood this morning, but it wasn’t exactly a terrible one either – until I got outside. My big stupid bag got in the way and my supermarket bag kept twirling itself around my fingers, cutting off the circulation, and ramming into my knee every time I lifted my right leg.
Two bus drivers with near empty buses ignored me – one even ignored me knocking on his door and calling him a wanker.
Then I had to dig through a bag the size of the Sahara in order to find my freaking ID card.
Then the security guard told me that I probably wasn’t a morning person.
I contemplated whether the time it would take me to find my boxing gloves in my giant bag would be worth it to be able to punch the cheery smile off his face. In the end I told him that he was probably right, and sent one of my best death glares his way.
He’s right though. I’m probably not a morning person.