“Sane is boring.” - R.A. Salvatore

In an attempt to write more, here is something that I whipped up during a chat with Barrel. The ending will follow soon.

The lesser boring Barry

Every morning was the same. Barry woke up at exactly 5:59am; a second before his alarm clock whistled, just as the sun was peeking out from behind the morning mist. Breakfast was a well rounded ten minute affair of precisely squared apple cubes and artfully lathered toast. Showering took another ten minutes as its mistress, until finally, he was fully clothed in the crispest cotton seen to man. To top it all off, was a big finish that consisted of a swift but vigorous shoe shine and then off he went on his way, primly clutching a slim briefcase, only to stop at the corner café for a cup of piping hot java; ready to take on the day.

But this morning was different.

Barry awoke, with a start, to the most unpleasant ringing sound he’d ever encountered. The sun was still playing hide and seek with the moon and his alarm was a long, long way off. Something was off. No, in fact, something was very wrong. This was just not how things were done in his house. Ill at ease, Barry laid his sensible head back down on his ever so slightly creased feather pillow and closed his eyes. Unfortunately for Barry, his body was now in full morning mode and his limbs refused to rest.

From then on his day got much, much, much worse.

- Breakfast was a no go.

- The dishwasher had inexplicably stopped halfway through its wash and Barry was left helpless without any cutlery and plate-less.

- The toaster, perched on the wrong digit, spat out a charred remnant of what had originally been his last slice of whole wheat rye.

- The geyser was in woeful need of repair and so an icy cold shower was the order of the day.

- Meanwhile his ears were still ringing from the hideous disturbance that had woken him up not so long ago.

- In a hopeless sleep deprived daze, Barry had also notably singed his favourite collared shirt.

But the straw that broke that camel’s back wasn’t the mouse hole he discovered during his rigorous yet thorough flossing regimen, it was the scrape his new loafers incurred during a tad-too-vigorous brush with the polish. Finally, at his wit’s end, Barry stripped his singed cotton off, unfolded his flannel two piece and balefully tucked himself back into bed for a sick day. Only to be unceremoniously wrenched from a blissful slumber by the same unpleasant ringing that had signaled the demise of his day.