I’m not an eloquent man but I was asked to tell my First Day story because it is quite different to that of the other remainers. It’s not about that one traumatic moment at 6:47am, instead my story only starts mid-morning.
I was hungover; very hungover. I woke slowly, reluctantly. I thought it was a Sunday at first because there was no traffic noise; then suddenly, painfully I realised I was late for work.
Very slowly I found some aspirin; took it; almost threw up; and decided to phone in sick. My boss’s phone just rang endlessly. Strange; but I was more concerned about the absence of coffee.
I had to get coffee.
Outdoors it was too bright; driving was hellish. At least the roads were quiet, no traffic until I got to the corner shop where some idiot had left his car idling in the middle of the road. I parked behind him and I walked into the store slowly; trying to control my nausea; to aisle four: hot drinks and sugar. For some reason someone had scattered two sets of clothes all over this aisle – shoes, socks, underwear – even a handbag. I knew I wasn’t really awake yet but I was beginning to get the feeling something very odd was up.
It was only when I got to the till that I finally grasped what had been eluding me. The cashier’s glasses were lying on her keyboard and her crumpled pile of clothing on her chair with a pair of stockings trailing down to the neatly placed shoes. There was no one here, no one anywhere I had been in fact: they were all gone.
I really wished I wasn’t so hungover.