Starting a story.

It started out ok, the alarm went off as usual three minutes before six a.m. time enough to gather the senses and prepare for the day to start, waiting for the usual tid bits of information called ‘the news’. ‘Who is it that decides what’s news and what’s not?’ Steve thought. ‘I mean there must be millions and millions of ‘things going on’ all over the world, so who chooses what we Brits get to hear as being ‘the news’? There must be some person somewhere filtering it, or is it a commitee that meets at the dead of night somewhere in Broadcasting house, or wherever it is that the BBC now resides.’ ‘how come we never get to hear about what goes on in Canada for example? I mean although it’s more peace loving than it’s southern neighbour, something must go on there surely?’ ‘Whatever’ he sighed and rolled on his side, hand hovering above the off button ready to press when the news got too tedious or in his eyes downright Tory propaganda.

The newsreader just had time to say ‘The Prime Minister’... and was cut off by Steve’s thumb coming down full force on the off button. He liked to do it this way, pretending to be a Roman Emperor, condemning the news item and reader to be some imaginary lions breakfast. ‘Not today beeb, not today’.

Steve sat upright, feet on the cold linoleum floor of his bedsit in Horfield, an area of Bristol that was ‘ok’ ,not yet completely taken over by newcomers fleeing the renting nightmare known as London. ‘Here they go’ he mumbled to himself as the couple upstairs started their morning ritual of what Steve called ‘The Fook Fighters’ - a short squeeking of bed springs, followed by a couple of grunts, an even shorter silence and then an argument.

Deirdre and Liam the duelling psychos upstairs had decided to bless the world with the produce of their loins, but it wasn’t working, try as they may no pregnancy followed their  weekly ‘shagfest’ as Deirdre liked to call their Saturday night marathon. Deirdre was nice enough, but a bit too graphic in her descriptions of her and Liams love life.  Determined as she was, she decided that the shagfest should be less about enjoyment and more about repetition, she had Liam on a daily morning routine of ‘Kurt Cobain’ her way of saying ‘come as you are’. The shortened daily version of the weekend ‘shagfest’ invariably ended in a shouting match between the two of them, Liams ‘morning glory’ not having the stamina necessary  for Deirdres needs. 

‘If she doesn’t get pregnant soon I’ll shag her myself’ Steve thought, although he recoiled at the thought of sharing a bed with Deirdre, a nice enough girl but a bit too dirty, literally , when they passed in the hall she left a distinctive odor of ‘blood,sweat and tears’ Steve laughed to himself. 

“Oh Fuck!” Steve realised that there was no bread, no bread means no toast and no toast means a really shitty start to the day, ‘I could go upstairs and ask the mad shaggers’ he thought, ‘but there again would  I eat anything coming from their flat? -no I wouldn’t ,so that’s it, a quick shower and brekkie at the café just off the centre , near the office’. 

This is where day one starts, breakfast at Toni’s café.