I hear the doorbell go through a haze of sleep. I look at the clock. 1.20pm. I think I am bored and lonely enough to answer.
My ankles crack as I walk down the stairs and I add this new ailment to my list. My hand moves unconciously to my neck and feels if my glands are still up. They are: they feel like stones.
I open the door, drawing my dressing gown tighter around me.
“Betterware?” the woman says.
I push back my hair. “What?” I say, cotton wool balls in my mouth. Well, not literally.
“Have you got your Betterware order form?” she says.
“Um, no,” I say. “I haven’t ordered anything.”
“You still need to give us the blank one back.”
“Right,” I say, getting tired from all the standing up. “Can I just find it later,” I say, beginning to close the door.
“Can’t you find it now?” she says.
I sigh loudly and half heartedly look on the kitchen counter next to me. “Er doesn’t appear to be here,” I mutter whilst lifting old envelopes.
“Most people I visit are dressed!” she says.
My head snaps up. Is that a sort of joke?
“Sorry?” I say, having not seen anyone else today and feeling rather up for a fight.
“It’s just, well, most people are all, new year, new job, aren’t they?”
I stare at her, attempting to BURN HER WITH MY EYES.
I want to tell her I have cancer. Or someone’s just died. Glandular fever doesn’t really have that edge to it.
“Your point is that I’m not dressed?” I say, icily.
“Well, yes, it’s just -”
“Bugger off will you?” I say.
It is out my mouth before I can stop it.
“Er, did you just say? That’s abuse!” she says. “I’m going to tell my supervisor.”
“Yeah, well,” I mumbled, closing the door with no comeback.
And on closing the door, that’s when I realised I am a CRAZY RANTING NOT DRESSED LADY.
