Sweet Obsession - H.S

04│Change Your Ticket

6th April 2013

I love wildlife. Really, truly, I do. It's something I will often admire. From afar. The typical swans down at the body of water running through Hyde Park. The parakeets nested in the trees at Kensington Gardens. Even the bloody pigeons that swarm you if you decide to eat lunch at Trafalgar Square.

But not whatever fucking birds are right outside the window, chirping away at eachother like gossiping mothers picking up their children from school.

They are birds. Birds. How can they have so much to say, without saying anything at all. Do these birds have their very own language? Do they assume when we humans talk to one another, that we're doing nothing more than making pointless incomprehensible noises? The same way we assume they do. I mean, there is that thing - research of whatnot - about how adult cats only meow to humans.

I don't really know.

All I know, is how badly I want to tell these birds to please, shut the fuck up. I'm trying to sleep off a hangover here.

It wouldn't be so bad if you were a deep sleeper, I guess. Which I am. Usually. But that is only the case if it's before eight in the Goddamn morning. There is such a fine line between a blessing and a curse. I suppose it's in the eye of the beholder - one of those that switches between the two depending on the situation you are in. But the fact that my body physically won't allow me to sleep past eight in the morning - ever - is definitely more of a curse when I am this hungover.

It wouldn't matter what time I fall asleep. It's always the exact same. An unbreakable cycle. And there have been times that I hate it - like now. And then there were sleepovers when I was younger, which could become kind of awkward, because I'd sit there, just waiting for the others to finally wake from their slumber.

Despite the rare occasions, I'm usually very appreciative of the fact I have an internalised alarm clock. It saves me from ever being late for work. More often than not, I'm up and dressed at about six / six-fifteen, on a weekday. Then when the weekend rolls around, I get more of a lie in, until about eight. The latest I believe I've ever slept was only nine, and that was after probably the most hectic week of my life.

I don't usually have to be in for work until eight, sometimes nine depending on what Charlotte has going on that week. But, yes, I am that girl who likes to be half an hour early. And yes, it's partly because I'm kissing up to the boss, it's all a part of my secret plan to butter Charlotte up so one day she might return the favour and help a girl out with her novel.

My pathetic excuse for a novel.

Work really isn't too far from me, and unless there's a strike or tube closures, then I don't have to leave more than half an hour for travel time. After all, I only work in south Kensington, a hop skip and a jump from my apartment. It's something I truly love, because the days where I have enough time for a lunch break I'll wander through the park, and often go and sit around by the Peter Pan statue and read or people watch.

In the mornings I don't force myself on a run - which I hate more than life itself, but it must be done - I'll sit at the counter, eating whatever off brand cereal (because we're too poor for the real cheerios) we have in the cupboard, and because there's never really much on TV at that time in the morning, I'll go through the three stages.

1. I'll try and write. In which almost always fails and leads to tears of frustration.

2. I'll read a book, because being in the industry of publishing and writing and editing, I probably should read - imagine being a musician who doesn't listen to any music. Which don't get me wrong, I love reading. It just reminds me of how useless my writing actually is.