• 'It was a Sunday morning when I was called out to lunch by my grandmother and the dreary rain outside seemed to match my mood completely. Hung-over from a few vodka’s too much yesterday at a get together of my single friends, it’s funny how the drink keeps coming over conversation concerning bitter recollections of ex-boyfriends. But yes, sitting in this pub about four hours before I was due to wake up and looking over at the gnarled faces of the old men at the bar didn’t make me feel any better. In fact it felt like something had crawled inside my head, shat itself then died. There was a point where I stared at the vinegar bottle playing with the scenario of bludgeoning my aunt until the noise coming from her mouth would finally stop.

    My aunt, divorced in denial who lives with her cat ‘sir Figgles’ and believes that anyone who has ambition is fooling themselves, usually talking to her makes me want to fall to the floor and pretend to be dead but this time was worse than ever. Her voice was starting to sound like the sound that magpies make early in the morning when you’re trying to sleep that sounds like a dolphin on some kind of accelerant drug. I ran my finger down the cold glass of the bottle and then turned to my aunt, in my craziness I even picked out the spot I would hit her with it and end the complaints about taxes and petrol which, though she could not change, she seemed to find the need to say her opinion on what she would do with it. Frankly right now I couldn’t care less about what she wanted to say, I wanted to be selfish and ignore her. Today was my day, my Sunday which was cruelly ripped from my grasp by an invitation received just when the covers of my bed were soft against my skin and it was cold enough outside to snuggle in the warmth and be glad of it. But now I’m here, cold and miserable with a groggy head. My Sunday is gone and the rest of the day was spent under sheets with the t.v on, and chocolate... lots and lots of chocolate.'