John Staples’ morning was as different to Sam Jackson’s as
Sam’s was to Jack Howells’. Once again he had awoken from a deep slumber, with
no recollection of the intervening period since crawling into bed. A painfully
full bladder explained why he had woken with such suddenness, causing him to
stagger uncertainly along the landing to the toilet. As relief swept over him,
while he was poised leaning with his left arm against the low cistern lid, he
heard the mail arrive. After flushing he made his way jerkily downstairs, half
falling the last few steps. Collecting the assorted mail, John entered the
kitchen, rubbing his face in an attempt to wake himself up properly. It took
him a few minutes to sort the mail into junk, possibly junk and non-junk, to
open a can of cat food for the feline lodger and to prepare the kettle for
making a cup of tea. Amongst the relatively minor pile of mail falling into the
non-junk category was the appointment for the hospital. John stared at the date
and the time stated on the letter, his left hand scrunching the envelope as he
realised he had barely a couple of hours to get there. For the second
successive day running John forewent the advanced features of morning
preparation, settling for a rapid wash and a hasty breakfast, consisting of
cereal washed down with the cup of tea he had started to make ten minutes
earlier. Rushing out of the house, his brain swimming as though through a
viscose fluid, he turned left and headed for the nearest bus stop.
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Copyright Ray Sullivan 2011
The characters, places and events described in this novel are fictitious and any resemblance to persons, places or events, past or present, is coincidence. All rights reserved
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