Sunday morning it was when I tumbled down the stairs like a drunken "sprinky" toy. I'd sprung out of bed at 7 o'clock and had been pacing around like a headless chicken, spilling the milk of my cereal on my pyjamas. My eyes were glued to my phone, as I opened the delivery tracker app. It read, "your parcel should arrive at around midday on Sunday. Currently in transit." My feet jittered every time I tried to sit still so it was unavoidable that the excitement just had to get me on my feet all morning. By the time 12 o'clock rolled around, I was all ready in my old Christmas slippers on the frosty, marble floor to answer the door for my parcel to arrive graciously into my arms... the doorbell just wasn't ringing.
At 13:00, I kicked my slippers off, as the hope I had clenched onto had pretty much dissolved into thin air. I'd gone upstairs, huffing about how I now had to return to the monotonous tasks of organising files, writing notes, sending emails, doing calculations, etc. etc.
Suddenly, the door bell rang. My eyebrows, raised to the ceiling to accommodate my almost completely white eyes bulging out of my skull. I flung the sheets of paper onto the floor where they became drenched by the steaming-hot spills of coffee. I couldn't care less about that. I had this darn parcel to get from the door. Throwing my dad's ginormous, navy slippers on, I powerwalked down the landing, and down the stairs, creating a fast cacophony of thuds behind me. Half way down, I felt my ankle give out. My heart dropped into my stomach, as I plummeted down the stairs into a miserable clump on the cold tile of the hallway. My face smacked the floor sending a ferocious roar of pain through my top half, mirrored by the shouts pulsating out of my angry ankle. *DING DONG* the door bell rang again. It felt as though I was in a thick curtain of confusion, but I could make out the splashes of red coming from the front door window. "Please tell me that man isn't going to run off with that box," I whispered to myself, dragging my knees up to my stomach so I could force myself to stand. I grasped the window sill, with my right hand and lifted my body onto my left leg, compensating for my bad right ankle. God, it ached. Luckily, the keys were in arms length away from me so I grabbed the web of keys, conscious that the postman would disappear. I turned my head to look out of the front door window, frantically storming through the keys, trying to find the holy grail key. The red colour was vanishing. Finally, my fumbling fingers found the key so I bounced on one leg to the door and unlocked it. After having swung the door open at record beating time, the post man turned to face me, glaring at the bottom half of me persevering on one leg. His faced looked like he had endured a thousand years of disgust just by looking at me.
"Is this number 34?"
"Yep," I answered.
He handed the parcel to me. I felt my slightly delirious, dizzy head go mental with happiness. Finally! So the good news is, I got my parcel. The bad news is, I've been stuck limping around, as though my foot is lifting up the whole of the earth's floor whenever I attempt to walk. I really wish I hadn't worn those bloody slippers.
