It starts at 6:30am.
Itâ€™s not usually the time he gets up, but the things that happened during the course of the night have greatly impacted his sleeping habits. The most prominent event during the course of his slumber was the unannounced visit of the mosquito brigade. No, not brigade. More like a choir. Brigades seem to have some sort of purpose. And yet, for as long as he can remember, choirs have seldom done anything usefulâ€¦well save for worshipping God.
That fact alone sees him disqualify the word choir in reference to his nocturnal visitors. They seemed to have a sense of purpose last night. Granted, even in nights past they seemingly know what they want and go out and get it, but usually thereâ€™s some sort of agreement. No activity until he is deep in slumber. No documents were signed, but they seemed to have reached a compromise. Either that or the mosquitoes had since enrolled in some school that imparted the elusive skill that is Tact.
He stumbles out of bed.
He would have loved to lie in bed longer, but the presenter on radio seems to have got a new lease on life and is going into overdrive. It doesnâ€™t help that he has clearly refused to give the English language a chance. At the very least he should have the decency to pronounce the artistesâ€™ names properly. Thatâ€™s clearly not his style. Heâ€™d much rather prattle on about his recent trip to the United States of â€œAâ€â€¦thereâ€™s a brief pause as though thereâ€™s the desire to have the listener fall out of his seat, attributing the eventual brain tumor to the suspense that was created. The presenter goes on, asks people to call in so he can gloat some more. Its starting to seem like this guy is actually convinced that the whole world does in fact revolve around him.
Itâ€™s also evident that the entity around whom this tale revolves has not yet been given a name. Names are not important. So we are led to believe from the whole sticks and stones may break my bones banter that we spew whenever or wherever we feel cornered by a 13 year old foaming at the mouth with filth and profanity picked up from stand up comedy.
Nonetheless, we christen this hapless individual, we call him Cedric. Itâ€™s a fictitious name, randomly given so that I need not explain myself to the other obvious choices.
Cedric makes his way to the bathroom.
Itâ€™s the sort of thing he would do. He has to get ready for work. In his state of transition between sleep and whatever state we are in when we are not sleeping, Cedric makes his first significant contact on this Thursday morning. He collides with the shelf. Suddenly the idea to have the shelf carved out of the heaviest wood money could buy is flung out of the window. The cusses he unleashes do not quite make it to the window.
In fact, they do not even make it past his mouth. Itâ€™s simply too much work.
He limps to the bathroom, passing a stack of clothes he is certain heâ€™d left behind for the house help to wash. The reality that he has no clothes to wear begins to sink in. he climbs into the shower where his hand is greeted by emptiness where it ordinarily has its rendezvous with the bathing soap.
Cedric is the poster child for Calm. He will not let this faze him. He reaches for the washing soap and holds his breath hoping this will actually prevent the strong cheap smell from registering.
Denial does its work and he is also convinced that the cheap scent is not stuck to his skin as he steps out of the shower. Fate considers making him slide on the bathroom floor and dishing out a compound fractureâ€¦then it hesitates, thereâ€™s more in store for Cedric.
As if to send the point home, Cedricâ€™s hand â€œbouncesâ€ yet again. There seems to be no tube of toothpaste. Well, itâ€™s not really a case of â€œthere seems to beâ€, itâ€™s pretty obvious that thereâ€™s none.
Cedric, practical guy that he suddenly is, figures that he can remedy this by chewing some really strong menthol laced gum.
He also figures that he can wear yesterdayâ€™s clothes and get away with it. Itâ€™s called â€œreboundingâ€. So he reckons he will rebound. For it to actually have a term must mean its an okay idea, one he is so pleased with; he convinces himself he can also hide the stain on his shirt by elegantly drooping his tie over it.
Suddenly, the obnoxious presenter has gone very quiet. Cedric hopes its one of those â€œsuspense-inducingâ€ moments. Or, at the very best, that the presenter has suffered a stroke that has left him without a voice. This sort of wishful thinking can only go on for so long. The truth makes its first appearance in this story as it suddenly dawns on Cedric that the power company has done him inâ€¦