The Monotomy of Life

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It's a wonder how I haven't yet merged into the wallpaper. My mornings begin with the same routine: a cup of tepid tea, precisely two biscuits never more, never less, and a glance at the clock to make sure it still ticks. My wardrobe is an exhibition of beige jumpers and sensible trousers.

Even my cat, Mr. Whiskers, yawns at my predictability. On weekdays, I trudge to the office, A grey building filled with grey people doing grey things. We exchange pleasantries, so polite and uninspired they could be scripted. “How was your weekend?” “Oh, you know, the usual.” And that’s the thrilling climax of our social interactions. Lunch is a packed affair: a cheese sandwich, mature cheddar, obviously, A bag of crisps, and an apple that always seems to have the same bite marks.

Once home, my evenings are an encore of monotony. I watch the same news programme, the same quiz show, and indulge in a solitary game of Sudoku. Even the numbers seem bored. Weekends are an adventure into domestic drudgery: mowing the lawn, dusting the shelves, reorganising my sock drawer. Yes, my life is dull and ordinary, but at least it’s consistently so.