Christmas Attempted: Speeding

December 17th. I was supposed to attend a speeding workshop three days ago. Fuck! Hopefully, the police will let me off for good use of irony.

I screw up the letter, which was strategically placed next to my bed to remind me, and deliver a papercut to the jugular of a hobbit. I then head downstairs and plug in my laptop, followed by a trail of Baggins-blood.

After deleting lots of e.mails asking me for help, I continue on the theme of reinvention. I write something about bubble-wrap and Jude Law, feeling strangely unfulfilled. Still no call from my parents - they are supposed to be deciding whether they want to come to my place for Christmas. I stare at the phone, frustrated by the lack of information.

I have the day all planned. Shower, shave, haircut, research trip for my new novel. I have a shower and hack at my face with a rusty razorblade. I have a Gilette Mach 3, you know - the ones from that advert with all the planes flying about and half-naked women with tactile OCD. Whoosh! Mehow!! Thwoom!! Aaah, face! If only my life was like a Gilette advert... flying jets and getting fondled. Sigh...

Anyway, the Mach 3 Razor is nothing like the disposables I used to have. With this one, you achieve more by throwing it away before you use it.

With my face gushing blood and jet-fuel, I stagger to the kitchen and open up the cupboards, kicking a harpy as it falls out. And here my day is brought to a standstill, my plans frustrated as I cook the ULTIMATE cheese sauce. It was fucking awesome - just the right balance of salt, onion, cheese and sprite. I gobble it up like a Falmouth tutor sensing confidence. And then I sit back for the next two hours, letting my meal go down and playing Solitaire on my laptop.

At six o'clock my housemate sweeps in like a whirlwind, spewing sarcastic comments and maternal snubs.

"Have you moved at all today?" she asks. My monosyllabic response is drowned as she slams on a Fratellis CD and patronizes the cats. The lamps and the Christmas Tree lights are switched on either side of me, and she starts dancing around my laptop. I ponder a dropkick, but then realise she has no religious significance. Another excuse for violence lost.

The hours pass. My housemate moans at me for having the audacity to move stuff as part of my lifecycle. She scurries around, returning everything to its original position, before the inconvenient intrusion of human existence.

"Night night!" she shouts, running up the stairs. My monosyllabic farewell is lost beneath the screeching of her retinue of cats.

And so, here I am, 9pm on the second day. The Solitaire window is gone. I am now playing Minesweeper. But don't worry folks: I have another window open with my new novel on it. It looks very pretty. I have cut and pasted some lyrics from an Alanis Morissette song into it.

Why the hell aren't my parents calling?

I pick up the poker from the fireplace and glance behind the sofa, looking for a Squirrel-Ninja to impale.