The Surprise Package

I wake up exactly as I do every other morning. Or at least, I think I do. The familiar fog of sleep lifts. My eyes drift open. I stretch. Yawn. Mentally run through the comforting checklist of my usual ritual. And then I see the time. 9:15. I stare at the clock. Once. Twice. A third time, because apparently my brain needs a few extra seconds to process the fact that my entire carefully constructed existence has just imploded. “Oh… FUCK.” I am late. Actually late. For work. I have never been late for work. Ever. I pride myself on punctuality. It’s one of my things. Some people collect stamps. Some people grow prize-winning tomatoes. Some people spend entire weekends watching strangers knock through perfectly good walls on Grand Designs. Me? I arrive on time. Always. My alarm clock, however, has apparently decided our relationship has run its course. It hasn’t just failed me. It has abandoned me entirely. The traitor. The time reads fifteen minutes past nine. I should have started work fifteen minutes ago. It’s not catastrophic. Nobody has launched a search party. Nobody is standing outside my house with a clipboard asking if anyone has seen Amanda. But still. For me? This is nothing short of a full-scale personal crisis. Because getting ready takes time. Not because I’m particularly glamorous. Far from it. I’m simply a creature of habit. A woman whose entire personality is held together by routine and a decent cup of matcha latte. Usually, I wake up at six o’clock on the dot. Every morning follows the same reassuring rhythm. It begins with the flick of the kettle. Matcha latte. Comfy sofa. Dream notes being untangled and slowly transformed into stories I’ll come back to later. Toast. Buttered. Sourdough bread. Usually eaten one-handed whilst typing with the other, because I’ve never quite mastered the art of doing one thing at a time. Then the cats appear. Not because they adore me. Let’s not romanticise this. Breakfast is running behind schedule, so they’re now aggressively voicing their complaints by weaving around my ankles until I almost break my neck. “Alright, alright. I know. I’m a terrible mother.” Then I call upstairs. “Alex!” Silence. “Alex!” More silence. “Alex, you’re going to be late!” A grunt. A shuffle. Then nothing. Typical teenager. I could announce that the house is on fire, and he’d probably mumble, “Can you shut the door? There’s a draft,” before rolling over and falling back to sleep. Then comes the final stage. Getting dressed. Makeup. Hair. Teeth. The delicate process of transforming myself from “woman dragged backwards through a hedge” into “perfectly acceptable member of society.” This morning, however, that entire operation has gone spectacularly to shit. Because my Royal Mail uniform isn’t where I left it. I always leave it at the end of my bed. Folded. Well… “Folded” might be overselling it. More arranged into a respectable-looking pile. Not military precision. I’m not a psychopath. Just organised enough to know where everything is supposed to be. Except this morning? Gone. Completely gone. I throw open drawers. I check chairs. I check the washing basket, despite knowing full well I didn’t put it in there. Then I start looking in places that make absolutely no sense whatsoever, because panic has officially taken the wheel. The universe is having a field day. I can feel it. Every time I spot what I swear is my red work top, I yank it over my head, wrestle it down over my tits… …only to realise I’m wearing the wrong bloody shirt. Off it comes. On goes another. Wrong again. Like some fucked-up, cotton-themed Groundhog Day. “What the hell?!” I look down. I’m wearing Maxi’s Breaking Bad T-shirt. Judging by the smell, it’s lived up to the title “ARGHHHH! For fuck’s sake!” I yell at nobody in particular. Unfortunately, somebody hears me. My husband appears. “Mandy, chill out.” “Chill out?” I turn around dramatically. “I’m now…” I glance at my watch. “Exactly twenty-five minutes late.” He looks completely unfazed. “No one has died.” “No.” I point dramatically at my own chest. “You’re wrong… my dignity died exactly twenty-five minutes ago.” I am never late. Never. This cannot be happening. And just when I think the universe has exhausted its supply of practical jokes… I flick the light switch. Nothing. I try again. Still nothing. The bulb has died. Perfect. Along with my pride, apparently. “Jesus fuck!” I’m furious now. Properly, irrationally furious. “How am I supposed to put on my makeup?” Mat shrugs. “You can use the bathroom mirror.” A perfectly sensible suggestion. The sort of suggestion made by someone who has clearly never had to apply eyeliner while protecting what little self-esteem they have left. “The bathroom mirror?” I stare at him. “Are you serious?” Because the bathroom mirror is brutal. It isn’t a mirror. It’s an interrogation. It highlights every pore, every line, every tiny imperfection I’d successfully ignored five minutes earlier. Now, the bedroom mirror? That’s a proper friend. It catches me in forgiving light, softens all the harsh edges and quietly says, “You’ll get away with it.” The bathroom mirror, meanwhile, takes one look at me and simply says, “Well… this has all gone downhill, hasn’t it?” Nobody needs that kind of negativity before work. So I do what any rational woman would do. I fumble around in near darkness, blindly applying make-up and relying entirely on muscle memory. The result? Cadaver chic. If that was an actual fashion trend, I’m years ahead of it. Somehow, I finally leave the house. Still wearing the wrong shirt. Still panicking. Still late. Still looking as though I’d applied my mascara during an earthquake. I set off at a brisk pace towards work. Brisk enough to suggest purpose. Not quite fast enough to admit I’m running catastrophically late. And then I see him. Shane. Walking behind me. I’d recognise that golden doodle from a mile away. Mabel. Trotting along without a care in the world. Shane? Lovely bloke. Genuinely one of the nicest men you’ll ever meet. Unfortunately, he has one tiny flaw. He talks. Oh, does he talk. There is never a quick chat with Shane. A simple “Morning” becomes a conversation. That conversation spawns another three separate conversations. Those conversations wander happily off down several side streets, stop to admire somebody’s guttering, then eventually circle back to… “What was I talking about?” Normally, I don’t mind. Today? Absolutely bloody not. Put simply… I ain’t got time for that shit. I discreetly pick up the pace. A little faster. Then faster still. I keep glancing over my shoulder like I’ve accidentally made eye contact with a charity fundraiser. He’s noticed me. Bugger. He smiles and waves. I walk faster. He walks faster. Surely he can’t catch me. I’m fuelled by matcha latte, pure adrenaline and an unhealthy attachment to punctuality. And yet somehow… He gains. Eventually, I feel a tap on my shoulder. “Amanda!” I stop. “I’m sorry Shane, I’m running—” “Late,” he says knowingly. “What gave you that idea?” He looks at me like the answer is obvious. “You walk with your elbows when you’re late.” I blink. “I… what?” “Your elbows.” He demonstrates with great enthusiasm. “They go all pointy.” I instinctively look down at my own elbows. Damn. He’s right. Before I can reply, he’s already launched into his next thought. “Funny old morning, actually.” “Oh?” “I’ve spent two hours arguing with a floorboard.” I frown. “…arguing?” “It started it.” He says it so matter-of-factly that, for one fleeting second, I actually believe him. “It kept squeaking.” He shakes his head. “Very passive aggressive.” “I… see.” “I won in the end.” “Congratulations.” He nods proudly. “Twelve screws.” By this point, I’m barely listening. I’m distracted by something else. A noise. A very specific noise. The terrace house beside us has its curtains wide open. And inside? A couple are getting their Barry White on. The whole street has been unwillingly promoted to live audience. For one ridiculous moment, I genuinely wonder if I’ve somehow taken a wrong turn and ended up in Amsterdam. “Jesus…” I look at Shane. “Are you hearing this?” He doesn’t even glance towards the house. “No, but that reminds me…” Oh no. “Did I ever tell you about the time I accidentally screwed a shelf to the wall before I painted it?” Yes. Several times, actually. “I had to unscrew it, paint it, let it dry for six hours…” He’s still going. “…then do the whole bloody thing again.” And then… Something shifts. One moment I’m politely enduring Shane’s passionate lecture on screwing… …and the next… I have a penis. An actual penis. There it is. Nestled proudly inside my cargo shorts as though it’s been there all along. I freeze. I look down. No. No, no, no. Absolutely the fuck not. Surely that’s… I discreetly shift my bag in front of me. Nope. Still there. Very much still there. Well… That’s inconvenient. Shane carries on talking. Completely oblivious. “Anyway, I ended up using twelve screws.” I nod encouragingly. “Eleven would’ve done it, but you should always allow one for optimism.” I have no idea what that means. “I’d have used thirteen, but that’s just asking for trouble.” I stare at him. The man is discussing the superstitious properties of screws… …while I’m quietly coming to terms with the fact I’ve spontaneously grown a penis. I’d say it’s the strangest conversation I’ve ever had. But technically, it isn’t even a conversation. He’s talking. I’m having a crisis. “I’d better dash, Shane.” He looks genuinely crestfallen. “Already?” “I’m really late.” He sighs. “Fair enough.” He pauses, as though carefully deciding which final piece of wisdom I simply cannot leave without. “I’ll tell you about the plasterboard anchors another day.” “It’s a fascinating subject.” I’m sure it is. He smiles warmly. “Take care, Amanda.” With that, he wanders off, Mabel trotting happily beside him as though none of this is remotely unusual. I stand there for a moment. I am now royally late. I look like I’ve applied my make-up during a power cut. I’ve been traumatised by my own reflection. And somehow, somewhere between my front door and this pavement, I’ve acquired a rather unexpected set of nuts and bolts. I adjust my bag again. Yep. Definitely still there. There is only one logical course of action. Run. I sprint the rest of the way to the depot. There is no dignity left. None. I burst through the doors. Panting. Sweating. Covering my rather obvious predicament. I scan myself in. 10:10. Jesus Christ. The strange thing? Nobody reacts. Nobody notices. Nobody says a word. Not a raised eyebrow. Not a double take. Nothing. Then again… If nobody’s noticed I’m apparently smuggling enough extra timber to build a garden shed… …my late arrival isn’t exactly headline news. Against all common sense, I sneak outside to where the HCT trolleys are stored. Curiosity is a nosy bitch. Today, she is positively feral. “Go on, Amanda.” “You know you want to.” I look around. Nobody. Satisfied I’m alone, I cautiously open the waistband of my shorts and peer inside. Well… I raise an eyebrow. That is… Impressive. Unexpectedly so. I mean… Objectively speaking. Purely from an engineering perspective. I give it an experimental prod. Hmm. It’s firm. Powerful. Surprisingly… girthy. Good Lord. I rather like it. The fact that I quite like it is, frankly, far more disturbing than the penis itself. Just as I’m becoming entirely too comfortable with my surprise attachment… Someone rounds the corner. Chris. Oh, for the love of— I spin around so fast I nearly headbutt the wall. Maybe if I stare at the bricks long enough, I’ll simply become part of the building. “Amanda?” Don’t panic. Don’t say anything weird. Whatever you do… Don’t mention the penis. “I HAVE A PENIS!” Excellent. Nailed it. Silence. Then Chris bursts out laughing. “I noticed.” He glances around theatrically. “…Hard not to.” His eyes drift south. “It’s quite the package.” I close my eyes. Chris studies me for a moment before grinning. “Don’t worry,” he says, shaking his head. “We’ve all had difficult mornings…” He winks. “…but yours seems unusually well-equipped.” I stare at him. There are moments in life when words simply fail you. This is one of those moments. I bury my face in my hands. Because what else can I do? Somewhere between waking up late, applying make-up in the dark, being psychologically bullied by a bathroom mirror, avoiding Shane’s Ted Talk on emotionally damaged floorboards, and discovering I apparently have a sizable… package… my original problem — being fifteen minutes late for work — has somehow become the least concerning part of my morning. I laugh. Because honestly… What else can you do when your subconscious decides to turn a perfectly ordinary Tuesday into a full-scale identity crisis? Some dreams leave you searching for meaning. Mine just leave me wondering what on earth I ate before bed.