Morning? What is this?

It's 9:40am. It's a Thursday and I have no plans for the rest of the day. This crushes me. I woke up at 7:30 so that I could beat the morning rush (apparently there is such a thing) to make an appointment at the doctors about a back problem which I first noticed last year. A bit late to leave it, I know, but I figured as the pain was now spreading to my legs and making it hard to walk, not walk, sleep, stand up and sit down it was probably time to do something about it. So I woke up and rang the doctors, getting through straight away despite warnings that this was impossible and would never happen. I wonder if maybe the receptionist could sense I was in pain and so ignored all the other millions of callers and put me straight through. Hmm, it seems the most likely option. I asked for my normal doctor (despite having not seen him for years, he's practically a celebrity now) and, unsurprisingly, was told he wasn't available until Tuesday. The woman on the phone knew this without even checking, likely due to all the other callers having asked her a similar question. I couldn't wait until next Tuesday (despite having waited since last summer) so I settled for my normal doctors slightly less friendly under study. I imagine he hates being thought of as an under study, but hey, he is. That's why he was available tomorrow rather than next week. I'm hopeful he will be able to cure me there and then, however baring in mind last time I saw him he told me I had diabetes which he totally failed to cure there and then, I don't have high hopes.

Making this appointment only took less than a minute of my day up. I felt a bit empty after I put the phone down, as for the sake of that one minute I'd gone to bed slightly earlier the night before, set my alarm and ultimately woken up in the morning for the first time in a long time. Surely I should get more reward than an afternoon booking a day later? But no, my only other prize is the thought of sitting here in this very position doing nothing at all for the rest of the day other than occasionally stretching my legs and arms out to try and relieve them from the pain which by 3:50pm tomorrow will have a name attached to it. For now I shall call it Derek.

All this boredom seems even more heightened after yesterday seeing Scott Pilgrim versus The World. His life was full of such excitement, such hope and such romance that my currently mundane existence seems even more potent. The fact that the most exciting part of my day is the odd tingle in my fingers and toes makes me feel quite dejected. I'm looking forward to some sort of creative spark later to relieve the monotony, I'd imagine at about 1pm when my mind has caught up with my body in realising it is awake. I feel rather proud that I've mustered up enough creativity to even write this, something which bodes well for someone who considers themselves a writer. Saying that sounds quite pretentious, but I find it impresses people who don't know me that well so I'm going to stick with it. "So what is it you do, Ash?" "Oh, me? Little me? I'm a writer, darling."

I tend to leave out the parts about my writing being as yet unpaid and how it's only a side note to a fledging advertising career, and how it won't really take off until I've finished university next year which effectively means that my answer to the question, "So, what is it you do, Ash?" should in fact be, "student." I appreciate the connotations linked with me being a writer much more than those linked to the word student. I like to imagine the people I tell think I go to cocktail parties and have many children scattered across the map to all the women I have bedded using my charm and grasp of the English language. Ah, it's the dream. The reality is that I don't go out much at all, am as of yet childless and haven't bedded any women due to my grasp of anything in a very long time. Sadly this is probably more accurate to the life of a writer than my previous idea. Maybe in the future I'll tell them I work in advertising (more of a lie than me being a writer; someone actually sort of a bit employs me for writing opposed to me paying other people to do advertising) as advertising has even better connotations linked with it. Scotch for breakfast, fancy lunch meetings and many children scattered across the map to all the women I have bedded using my, err, well, money I guess.

Alas, I really don't like scotch and I'm not a huge fan of big lunches.

On the bright side I'm in quite a bit of pain, so it seems my day is starting to pick up. Hurray!