The opening strains of The Smiths‘ Bigmouth Strikes Again provokes a Pavlovian response in me. Namely reaching out blindly to snooze my alarm clock for another precious five minutes. Yes, I love Morrisey enough to give him privilege of first contact every new day. But the fact that Morrisey makes me drool no matter how ungodly the hour is not the point I’m trying to make here. No, the point I’m making is just how precious and lifesaving an extra five (well, fifteen) minutes of alarm snoozing can be.
Given what a lazy fekker I can be, I’m sure you will understand why Saturday and Sunday mornings are particularly sacred. In an ideal world, my eyes flutter open gently to the sounds of Arcade Fire‘s My Body Is A Cage (over the weekend I prefer to wake up to a more mellow sound) and to a steaming cappuccino and a croissant.
The latter has been known to happen, albeit with pancakes as opposed to croissants. The former…ie the nine a.m. pleasant sliding into consciousness….not so much.
Take this morning for example. I was sipping cappuccino by six in the morning. Why? I hear you ask, every syllable dripping shock and pity. Cos that’s the time my neighbors’ kid decides to wake up. And by waking up, I mean scream the house down. And by kid, I mean spoilt little brat who deserves a well aimed kick in the seat of his pants.
Which his parents would never dream of applying, of course. God forbid the kid’s natural instincts had to be curbed with any form of discipline. They’d rather have the little monster scream at all hours of the day, throw stuff at them when his whims are not catered for and bang kitchen cupboards just for the fun of it. Discipline is for uncaring parents.
And so the neighbours put up with the real life version of Dennis the Menace and limit themselves to rolling their eyes at each other when they chance upon him in the street. Until one of snaps, of course, and lets the idiot parents have a piece of their mind.
That someone is likely to be me.