Author's note: yes that is Anderson's name. Gatiss confirmed it over twitter.
Sylvia Anderson woke up and felt uncannily fresh, like a daisy. Then he realized his blasted alarm hadn't gone off and he was late. He had kept a sparkling clean record of punctuality throughout the entire year and he was going to never stop kicking himself if he ruined it now. He reckoned he could make it though, if he skipped everything and got dressed on the bus.
He jumped out of bed, skidded on his floor mat, only missing making breakfast with his teeth and the floor by an inch, and piled up as many articles of clothing as he could, bolting out the door like he was doing an a hundred meter dash. He bounded down the stairs, dropping a sock as he did. He scowled as his top half stopped in midair because it wanted to go back and get it. His bottom half shrieked at him that you are going to be late Sylvia Anderson and you are going to be a disgrace and tried to keep going, resulting in a strange jerk that made him stagger on the stairs. He made a noise of frustration and continued his beeline down the stairs, deciding that he could do without a sock today.
He stuck his hand into the bundle of clothes, and with some miracle pulled out his watch on the first try, eying it with alarm. The bus comes in two minutes.
Two.
Minutes.
He had ten flights of stairs to run down in two minutes, and no amount of his awkward bony Bambi legs was going to make him any faster. By the time he got to the bottom of the building, he was sweating, pale and could possibly puke out a bar of pure gold. He wheezed as he suddenly hit horizontal ground, and struggled to move forward instead of down. Gasping for air like some kind of white blind cavern fish out of water, he hobbled with excellent speed to the bus stop, stopping there, taking out his watch and realized he still had twenty seconds. He was so relieved he dropped all his clothes on the floor as he screamed in triumph at the sky, relaxing all of his muscles that were tensed like those of a cat on a skewer. When he could see without white stripes dancing around his vision like attention seeking jail bars, and feeling like he wanted to shit himself and not care about consequences he bent down to pick up a shirt. Or something. His hand groped something and he picked it up.
A sock.
It was the single sock.
Anderson sighed and pulled it on. A grandmother who had just walked to the bus stop to wait too looked at this strange bony man in his underwear, and tsked about people these days.
A chill British breeze whipped past him and he shivered, and begun to dress quicker. When he was completely dressed, and had tweaked his tie and smoothed over his hair and smelt his breath; twice, he looked down the road for the bus. But there was nothing bus traffic.
"Where is the damned bus?" He shrieked when he couldn't not look at his watch anymore, and glanced. The bus was ten minutes late.
Ten.
Minutes late.
This means he was more than fifteen minutes late.
"The bus doesn't come for another twelve minutes." The old grandmother said, but Anderson ignored her. He thought she was stupid because the bus always comes ten minutes ago on work days, and told her exactly that. She shook her head with a confused look on her face.
"Today is Saturday, son." She croaked.