Morning routine
My morning routine is a simple and well drilled affair, I wake up, go straight to the shower, come downstairs, iron a shirt whilst the kettle is boiling, drink tea whilst I watch the TV review on GMTV with Kate Garraway (WEY HEY!, a thousand more hits for me) and Richard Arnold, finish my tea, pick up my rucksack and make for the car. Stop the clock, forty minutes.
The eagle eyed amongst you will realise that whilst I have a smartly pressed shirt, I appear go to work naked. Interwoven amongst this routine, is dressing, almost every day.
I hate getting in the shower. It’s the point of no return, a surge of energy, sparked by our badly tuned clock radio, propels me to the bathroom. Once I’m in the shower I’m no longer allowed to be a sleepy lumbering beast, theory says in three minutes I have to be awake, alert and ready.
To lubricate my passage (WEY! HEY! two thousand more hits) is shower gel. It’s like the big lever Han Solo pulls on the Millennium Falcon to make the jump to light speed. It’s supposed to take you through the barrier into the world of the awake. Much like the Falcon’s flux capacita, every time I use it, it fails to live up to expectations.
It’s always called something like Sunshine Sunburst or is the fragrance of a far off paradise like Aloe Aldershot. I expect my skin to crackle and sparkle into life when the gloop touches it. I expect it to invigorate my mind, open it up to embrace the challenges ahead (challenges like, how to write 500 words about shower gel, for example). I want it to feel like I’m having colonic irrigation using Sherbert Abdabs and Semtex.
It never does of course, it makes no difference to my morning, it goes from orange goo to orange goo with a couple of bubbles to orange goo with a couple of bubbles making haste towards the plughole. I’m so disappointed.
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