She wakes up in her small London flat, snug and warm under the silk eiderdown bed shed, unprepared to conquer the arctic cold of the winter outside.
As her eyes flutter awake like an eagle opening its wings, she can hear the banging of the dustbins being put in the lorry like a shawl of plankton.
Wait! It must be 7, she shudders!
The train from St Pancras is at 8 am. “How am I going to get there in time?” She leaps out of bed, like a gazelle chased by a tiger, and darts to the bathroom. She flicks on the shower and doesn’t wait for it to get warm. A shot of ice-cold water strikes her body like a spear, heightening the urgency of her situation.
She rushes to the living room to pull on whatever clothes she can find. What does she wear? A clean summery skirt and blouse or her cable knit jumper that’s got as many holes as Swiss cheese? She opts for the leggings and jumper, grabs a bag and rushes to the station.
Her leggings give her speed as she darts through commuters and managers to get to St Pancras.
As she arrives, she rushes to the ticket machine.
Does she wait patiently, staring at the people in front in a passive-aggressive way, knowing this could risk her missing her train? Does she start crying to guilt-trip people into letting her think? Does she try to get on without a ticket? The options swirl in her mind, each one a potential risk.
She waits surreptitiously at the gate and sees an empty suitcase on a trolley. She tries to get into the suitcase.
Then, nothing. She gets picked up. A sudden jolt of surprise and fear grips her. Will she get on the train and get noticed? The uncertainty adds to the suspense.
Suddenly, a thump, and she feels her body in mid-air. And another thump. Then the zip starts to open slowly. The zip is caught, dammit!
Then, it opens from the pitch block to see the landscape fly past — the straight opposite, what seems like the driver collapsed on his seat in shock.
Does she take over driving, or does she call someone? What would you do?
