I woke up the next morning to a progressively irritating yet strangely soothing melody of raindrops pattering against the bedroom windows. There was an erie dullness about the cumulonimbus-filled sky as I hoisted my still-limp body from under the covers.
I Stumbled into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Well, I say prepare. Microwaved cheese on toast is hardly a taxing culinary endeavour, but I digress.
Having briskly polished-off my breakfast, I slouched down into one of my brand new sofas. The pristine leather groaned in reluctance as the burden of my eleven stone frame forced it into remoulding out of its plump, untouched state. I glanced down at yesterdays papers, perched upon the coffee table and almost subconsciously began to twiddle my thumbs in anticipation, but also apprehension. I knew I would eventually have to head down to the newsstand. I mean, this may well be – although for the sake of my career aspirations I damn well hope not – the only time I have the privilege of boasting I: Garrick Richardson, have an article featured in the New York Times. But at that moment, the time simply didn’t feel right.