I am not a morning person. However I do perform quite well in the morning. I am able to have coffee, smoke a cig, shower and attempt to look human before trundeling off to my day job. However some morning's I am a zombie.
At the moment I am living at home, with my brother and occasionally my dad, when he's around. He finds me hilarious in the morning. My old man wakes up at 5am, on the dot, no matter if it's Saturday or Wednesday. No wonder he is so grey.
I have found, since turning the ripe old age of 23, that mornings are far more trecherous and exhausting than they were when I was sixteen. At that age, you go to bed at four and wake up in time to get to school by eight and still look like a teen Vogue mod. Nowadays I look like a dishevelled mother of forty. I can barely stand upright, for the first thirty minutes I am the hunchback of Notre Dame. Sometimes it takes me two attempts to exit my bed. One has to roll to one's side to make it upright first of all.
The other morning I was so exhausted I couldn't tell what the difference was between my ashtray and coffee cup. I ashed in my coffee. So gross.
This morning, at the ungodly hour of six-thirty am, I launched out of bed, hearing a ruckus in the street, assuming one's house was being attacked by resident Somalian drug lords (for reals in Camps Bay) and ran through my bedroom door. The bedroom door was firmly shut and my nose had it's first encounter with a hard surface. There was an almighty crunching sound. A magnificent wail (me) followed by sobbing and Mr Ian, half asleep, trying to figure out why I was wailing like a lunatic.
I have never broken a bone in my body, except baby toes; which don't count, and so I was in a panic about breaking thine nose. I already have giant sausage thighs to deal with, a squiff nose is traumatic further.
I went to work, crunchy nose and all, minor headache and half dressed in pajama's. At that point all I cared about was the state of my shnoz.
I have just been to my lovely doctor, Karla, she inspected my septum and has diagnosed that I do not have a broken nose, just crunchy cartilage. Thank god, what more does a woman have to deal with?
I did consider if surgery was a must, while I was knocked out they could suction some fat out of my thighs and deposit said fat into the boobage area. It is quite badly needed.
Anyway the lesson is ...
I don't nose really ... don't walk into doors?