I swing my arm over to the side of me that an alarm clock would normally be, forgetting for a moment that I’m not where I usually am, and consequently hurling my wrist into the corner of a box that definitely shouldn’t be there. I open my eyes to inspect the damage to my wayward limb.
On finding the clock, I discover that it's 6:18, which isn't bad, thinking about it. It feels bad, though. My back hurts a little from the thin mattress on the concrete floor. The muscles in my leg are too stiff and very cold. My knees especially. Why do my knees always get cold? This, amongst other questions totally undeserving of a response flit through my mind as I grow accustomed to the light. I settle for the most appealing and hopefully most practical - in which direction should I go to find a cup of coffee in the fastest time possible?
The answer came gloriously quickly. I boil my thoroughly retro kettle on the stove and think that an electric one might be a good investment- but I'll wait til I can afford it. I am, after all, yet to find any variety of reliable income. Half the reason I moved to the city was to be in a more comfortable position for sucking corporate dick; I worked a disgustingly quaint shop job in my old town. Ideally I'll get into editing for actual money with actual people actually respecting me, but for now it's carrying out whatever ridiculous whims occur to the people who currently hold that most desirable status of employment, for whatever money they're kind enough to pay me. I can't say it's a bad thing though - I'm going to be in a proper television studio, with people who work in television, and people who can help me, and perhaps most alluringly of all, central heating that works.
In this muddled morning state I keep attempting to carry out my old morning routine, but in a sort of improvised manner, appropriate to this setting which is still new to me. So after the coffee I try and work the shower - predictably unpredictable water temperature - frantically hurry to the warmest place in the house while cold and wet and armed only with a towel - find clothes but can barely open the zip of my suitcase because of how much my hands are shaking, and finally, for reasons I can't quite fathom, I check the post. Why I would have post, I have no idea. In fact, this actually crosses my mind as I'm walking towards the front door. As well as this, if I did have post, it wouldn't be here, because I'm in a block of flats. And I'm sane enough to not go checking my box downstairs for takeaway flyers. I made a point of giving no one my new address when I left.
I approach the front door, slightly more awake now, but still barely register the piece of paper with one corner still under the door.
A piece of paper. This poses questions.
I approach it tentatively...another flyer from a particularly persistent door-to-door salesman? A note from my landlord...already? A standard letter of housewarming?
Well. It's none of these things. I turn it over in my hand, and it reads as follows:
'Welcome to town. I hope you like it here.
Flat 104 has a television, especially at 4 pm today'
and underneath, no name, but a circle. A slightly squashed 'O' shape where a signature should be.
I'm intrigued.
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