Groaning at yet another rude awakening, this time courtesy of my alarm clock, I rub my eyes then, remembering what day it was, jump out of bed to do a few jazzercise stretches before my morning coffee. Clicking the kettle on, I survey the mess. A discarded vodka bottle lays on the sofa, half its contents now soaked into the worn red velvet. The coffee table is on its side, magazines scattered across the floor. Naboo's bong has miraculously remained unbroken, despite having fallen off the coffee table and I wonder to myself if some kind of mystical Vince-proofing is in effect. Actually it's not too bad and 10 minutes later, the place is looking, well, maybe not perfect, but back to the organised chaos which we always seemed live in. The bathroom was a complete disaster zone, but I decided to leave it for Vince. After all, it IS his mess! Anyway, I have to get down to the shop early to make sure I get all my stocktaking done down there before I have to go to the bank!
Lunchtime comes and goes and Vince still hasn't come downstairs. I know he's awake, I heard the shower going hours ago. No doubt too hungover to face me. Whatever he's up to, he better hurry up and get down here, I need to leave soon. If he makes me miss out on my ideal flat, I'll never forgive him. I pace the floor, glancing anxiously at the clock every few minutes. Idle chitchat with customers, who never buy anything anyway, seems to last for hours and I contemplate throwing them out and shutting up, but that would be most unprofessional. A maverick, I may be, but I'm always professional! Eventually I hear the creak of the door and the clicking of his heels, signalling his arrival. Spinning around, I notice the heavily backcombed hair, black shimmery leggings, sheer blue shirt, which leaves nothing to the imagination and clashes wildly with his green scarf and, oh god, he's even wearing glitter on his face. He could at least pretend he's going to do some work today, and not sneak off into town the moment my back is turned. In fact, I'm surprised he's bothered to turn up at all, instead of just sneaking out the back door. That's his usual trick. Well not this time. No sir! Today I have to stand up and do something for me, I've had enough of worrying about Vince. Realising I have less than ten minutes to get across town, I vent my anger for a couple of seconds (I have no idea what I said, but it doesn't really matter because he won't have listened anyway) before storming out of the shop.
The wind is bitter outside, and the ice has yet to thaw, much to my annoyance. Hurrying as fast as I dare, thankful for my sturdy boots, I desperately try to cover more ground than is possible, given the treacherous conditions underfoot. Typically, everything is conspiring against me and I get stuck behind Granny Scroggins and her bingo brigade, wasting yet more time. Arriving late, I am told in no uncertain terms by the snooty woman behind the desk that I have missed my appointment, and there are no more afternoon appointments available for another week (well, there's no point in me arranging a morning appointment, Vince couldn't possibly trouble himself to be out of bed so I could leave the shop in the morning now, could he?). I moan, threaten, and eventually resort to begging, offering to wait around until the end of the day, in case anyone else fails to turn up for their appointment, but she refuses to be moved. Grumbling, I accept the next available date, which is now, somewhat incredibly, 2 weeks in the future, and stomp out, slamming a door for the second time in less than an hour. I resist the urge to check out the jazz themed homeware in the newly opened Jazz Up Your Home boutique next door, partly as I probably do not now have anywhere to put said homeware, but mainly because I don't want to leave Vince in charge of the shop any longer than necessary. Who knows what disasters have occurred in my absence.