MAC Mag 06

The Worst Journey in the World
Beeps, buzzing … Noise! Noise! Noise!
Confusion …. Fine? No, my alarm appears to be having yet another scheduled epileptic fit on my cluttered bedside table.
OFF! And I am already back asleep.
7.30 rocks around after one minute and now I am highly irritated and ready to hurt something!
I force one foot out of bed. Count, 3, 2, 1 … other foot out. I seem to have developed this theory … if I break it down
into slow, short stages, it won’t be so painful.
This theory is, unfortunately, proven wrong every single morning.
Right, light on …. light off, light definitely off! Eyes flicker in disgust at the punishment I just inflicted on them.
Clothes …. God damn clothes! I wish I was Eve. Track pants? Closest thing to PJ’s … perfect!
Door to kitchen … risky, but has to be done. I open in fear. Coolness captures my feet and threatens with a hostile
kiss of death.
Jug on and mad dash back to the bedroom. Feet in front of heater … ah, bliss. Toes give wiggle of appreciation as
heater thaws the arctic that had just violently attacked them.
Bubbling … click. Green light for coffee. Coffee in mug and another mad dash back to the bedroom.
Time spent in kitchen best kept to a minimum for fear of blood freezing in this isolated igloo.
Right, time to catch a glimpse of that monster that jumps into my mirror every morning. “Shrek, is that you?” Oh, no ….
wait, “Morning Gemma …. Geez, rough night?”
Questions roll silently through my fatigued brain. “Why can’t we all be bald?” “Who invented make up?” …. and, “For
God’s sake, who invented Time?”
Clock blinks 7.50 at me, I blink “DIE” back.
I wish I could take the ten minutes my beauty routine robs from me and replace it back into that lovely place I like to
refer to as bed!
Tongue glides over teeth … tongue wishes it could escape! Gag … a quick sprint to the bathroom across the hall in
Iceland should do the trick! An attack from an amazing invention called the toothbrush … and cured! Ah … minty
freshness. Flash a quick TV smile at the mirror and onto next mission.
Time? Again in very short supply this morning.
Feet … dispose of bare feet and trade in for some shoes. Look at the selection … Ug boots. Anything to trick myself into
thinking it’s a lazy Sunday!
Lights off … check, heater off … damn!
Door opening to Antarctica … unavoidable.
“Bye, family.” Pause … wait … no reply, no surprise. Family is non-existent.
I close the door to my little ice-box that is to be left untouched until I return from my very predictable day.
Glance at white thing parked outside my gate. Growl and mutter something about a frozen windscreen.
Try and open the door … fight, pull, tug, kick … how convenient! Hot water, grab jug and pour roughly over the seal.
Chuck a careless splash over windscreen … and finally ready to go!
Jump in … give anything to jump straight back out. Body shaking with discomfort as I plead with the heater to cooperate.
The Lancer hates mornings as well, but sadly I have little sympathy for anything but myself before 9.00am.
The marathon is well underway, the hardest part is over, now if I could just stop the clock for 15 minutes … no, God is not
participating this morning. Can’t stop time, can’t stop rushing, can’t stop YAWNING!
Chelsea’s still doing the finishing touches on her morning routine as I trudge on through her house. First sign of life on this
planet I’ve seen all morning … shame, she is as shitty as me at this ridiculous hour.
Back in the car we both abide by the Lancer Bible … a series of unwritten rules that have been conveniently adapted
into the “a.m. procedure”. Rules are as follows: heater must run on high, music must be kept on low, any talking on
radio must be banished and communication does not have to be polite and may be avoided if necessary.
These aid in a safe and bearable journey to get to our final destination of this very ugly morning.
Outside the school gates I reluctantly guide the four wheels of my carrier into an empty, uninviting park. I sit staring
blankly out of the window.
Music starts to appeal to the senses, and is gradually allowed to be turned up.
Throat starts a slightly unpleasant humming, lips start to dance and foot develops some sort of beat … some people
would reluctantly refer to this as singing.
A smile smears itself across our faces, sprinkling our drowsy eyes with pinches of glee as we lampoon over our silliness.
Time once again creeps on up and rudely doesn’t wait as it forces us out of the car and assertively shows us to the entrance.
A door which is the gate to the rest of my day.
The end.
Gemma Hutton, Year 13
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