Bad Hair Day

The traffic woke her up.
Not the alarm tone on her phone.
She was late.
Panic.
She had been jobless for some time.
Today was her first interview in months.

Ironed, clean outfit on,
While coffee brewing,
Toast pops,
Milk spills,
Drenched from head to best shoes.

What to wear?
Everything damp,
Except …
Jacket left by brother.

Lift not working,
Clatter down the stairs,
Dash into windy street,
No buses or taxis.
Walk.

Arrive at glossy office,
Windswept hair looks like a cross between toilet brush,
and a beach debris encrusted snorkel tube.
Late. Very late.

She waits.
Tick, tock goes the clock,
Doors open,

Bad Hair Day

Ushered in.
She trips.
Collides with designer florist’s floral arrangement.

Opens mouth to apologise,
But is unable to speak.
It’s as if she is underwater.
Swimming against the tide.
Unable to see through her dive mask,
A human fish out of water.

“Perfect,” says a voice. “Great comedy routine. The spot's yours.
We’ll draw up a contract.”
She sits up, “So, this isn’t an interview for the job as a receptionist?”
“If I laugh again, I’ll be sick, you are just too funny.”

She decides not to try to explain.
Someone wanted to pay her for being clumsy, disorganised and a sartorial curiosity, why argue?
After all she’d never wanted to be a receptionist.
It hadn’t been such a calamitous day after all,
Although, her brother wouldn’t be pleased about the state of his jacket.