I hate Sunday mornings

I hate Sunday mornings. I’m well aware of the fact that Sunday mornings and I do not get on at all. In fact, we haven’t been on speaking terms since I was about thirteen years old. Goddamn Sunday mornings, I say, existing so smugly at the end of the week, not doing anything for you at all, except reminding you that another shitty Monday morning was on its way.

It didn’t help that this Sunday morning was a particularly hot and sweaty one. I groaned as I twisted my sheets, moving my body in an absurd - and futile - attempt to escape the sun’s rays beating through the window. As I moved, my incredibly hung-over brain lambasted me and I was forced to keep still and whimper quietly.

I thought about what I hated most about Sunday mornings. Hmm. Probably the fact that on Sundays you usually did one of two things: a) nothing and b) nothing, but with family.

Both of those options seemed equally torturous. The truth is, the best start to a great Sunday was me sneaking out of a stranger’s bed after a hazy (but not so hangover-inducing) night. Now that kind of activity was fun because I had a very organised way of sneaking out. And I like being organised. I’ve been practising my escape plan for years, and have got it down to such a fine art that nine times out of ten (or three times out of four in the last month), I manage to scale the walls undetected.

It’s the routines involved in leaving a man that I love. I have a bulleted list, neatly written out in italic in my head, of every step on the path, and it pleases me immensely to tick my way through it.

* Lift alcohol-sodden arm off his chest:  Check.
* Slide out of sheets into panties: Check.
* Pick up clothes / accessories from the inside out - bra, thigh highs, jeans, satin top (a wardrobe staple), jacket, condoms, phone, wallet:  Check.
* Stilettos in hand, panther walk ready and I’m off. Check.

If I’m really good - and I often am - the guy won’t even remember there’s been anyone there.

I have from time to time considered challenging my friends to see who can abandon ship in the least noticeable way. But I just knew I would win - the opposition being so, how could one put this? Amateur.

Leaving one man after one one-night stand was more the style of my friends. Not three or four a month.

While I pondered the fact that I didn’t feel in the slightest degree guilty about my looseness, my stomach joined my brain in protest as I smelt the unmistakeable aroma of my mother’s bacon. My stomach churned as I thought of the greasy breakfast awaiting me downstairs, the three-sugared instant coffee and the stale toast that had been ready since fiveam. Before I could help it, I was in the bathroom, on my knees, leaning over the toilet and retching out last night’s indiscretions.

I felt like lying on the cold bathroom door and whimpering. But then I heard the doorbell ring, followed by the sounds of my dear older sister Fiona and her two children arriving. I knew that Zoe and Jason’s first move would be to run up in search of their aunt, and if I didn’t want to be found in a sorry state on the tiles, I’d have to jump in the shower and just get over it.

As I showered, I wondered if last night was really worth the pain and agony of the morning. But then I giggled and laughed the thought away. Of course it was. Dancing in my brand new white stilettos on a table after one too many tequilas - I had, I had to admit, teetered on the edge of total humiliation, but the fact was, my performance had won me a string of free drinks from members of an appreciative audience, and you can never argue with that. I made a mental note not to return to last night’s venue for at least six months. It doesn’t help to make a bad name for yourself.

The worst of my hangover evaporated as I dried my hair and put on moisturiser. My thoughts turned to my immediate prospects. Tomorrow I start a new job - a real job, for once. Plus a new degree - my masters. Finally, I’ll be doing something substantial after years of ingratiating myself with musty English lecturers (who were mostly lecherous pervs anyway - not that they didn’t have their uses from time to time).

By the time I got downstairs, I was feeling pretty good about myself. The events of last night had left a smile on my face, and I was optimistic about her first day tutoring at the university. I was almost beginning to feel that I could meet the challenges of this Sunday morning.

And then, as I swung into the kitchen, the breakfast table hove into view. And my heart dropped.

To Be Continued…