I am very busy and important. The first thing to know about me is that any time I’ve ever said that phrase, I have been quoting Bridget Jones rather than describing my actual life. But whatever. I, like, have a job and I do things there.
Yesterday, my job involved me coming in to work half an hour early. For the first time in my life, I didn’t mind. Perhaps it’s something to do with the fact that coming in half an hour early in Falmouth just means leaving the house half an hour earlier than usual. If I were still in the outskirts of London I’d have had to leave a full hour early and I would definitely have been late because I refused to run for buses before 8am as a matter of principle. So, maybe it’s that, or maybe it’s the fact that I’ve been naturally waking up at 6:30am every morning for the past week. I don’t want to jinx it by acknowledging it, though. In fact, I’m so desperate not to jinx it that I’ve been forcing myself to go back to sleep for half an hour and then snoozing the alarm for ten minutes before I eventually get up and curse myself for not just getting out of bed while I was still feeling awake.
Anyway, I had to come in early, and I didn’t mind, because that is the kind of life I live now. In fact, I like to arrive at the office ten minutes early. I’ll just pause here while every former employer I’ve ever had wipes their drink off the screen from the spit take they just did.
When I left the house yesterday and I was set to be on time but not as early as I generally like, which meant that I had to power walk. Just to set the scene: The weather recently has been phenomenal. In the nearly-a-month since I’ve been here it has rained exactly once, and for less than five minutes. And that wasn’t even really rain, but more like a freak hail storm coming from a cloudless sky. Basically, some Day After Tomorrow-level shit.
So it’s generally warm when I get out of the house. It’s also epically hilly. My walk is just over twenty minutes, and I don’t think I walk on flat ground at any point during that. I am out of breath and sweaty ninety per cent of the time because I am very glamorous and physically fit. In fact, I think part of the reason I like getting to work so early is because it gives me a chance to down an entire pint of water before anybody else gets into the kitchen, and then collapse at my desk while the worst of the sweat dries.
So, in getting to work yesterday, I was as rushed as I think I’ve been so far. But I made it, because I’m a professional. And, as previously mentioned, I am also busy, important, and glamorous.
So, imagine my surprise when I went to the toilet later in the morning (it happens, guys. Let’s all just chill out about it.) and realised I’d somehow managed to dye the tops of my legs and my, um, crotchular area a vivid shade of pink. It definitely must have been down to the the morning powerwalk, and either my pink underwear or my maroon jeans. But both of those things had been washed, so by rights they shouldn’t have been able to dye me any colour. Which means I’m actually not sure what happened.
So, the mystery continues. My legs and other regions remained bright pink until the next time I had a shower, which is perhaps not quite as soon as it should have been, but it’s a bank holiday. Perhaps I should have retired the underwear and the jeans until I could figure out what’s, well, staining me. But as I am living life as a solo renter these days I can’t afford to take such drastic measures. Instead I continue to play Russian roulette with my skin, and thank my lucky stars I’m not at the beach this weekend. At least it’s adding a sense of peril to my morning commute which has definitely been missing since I stopped travelling through Harrow on a daily basis. I’ve never felt more alive.