The moment I stepped from beneath the practically non-existent porch of my miniature flat, I realised that, without a doubt, it was to be one of those days. You know; the days when each and every possible situation that you find yourself involved in turns into a situation that you assuredly don't want to find yourself involved in. When every possible outcome that you wish against somehow miraculously comes into existence in the space of twenty-four hours. When it's purely the realisation that the consequences of not continuing to go about your day as best you can far out ways the knowledge that it may perchance be better for you to remain in bed that prevents you from doing so. Yes, one of those days.

And one of those days it was to be.

I was made aware of the impending negativity that I was to shortly be subjected to by the fact that instant I set a foot on the grimy ground outside, the sky began to clog with clouds of the darkest and angriest colours one had ever laid eyes on. And almost immediately after, said bad-natured clouds decided it was the perfect occasion to release a great torrent of water down upon the residents of Ashbury Lane. As of course, I had my hair rolled up beneath my battered bonnet, that was not the problem. The problem - which hastily made itself all too apparent, was that the gaunt fabric of my blouse was not equipped for dealing with such conditions. It promptly turned a translucent whitish colour and sagged about my waist in the most unflattering of manners. This wasn't acceptable! What would the boss say? I most definitely could not show up to work, dressed as though I was a rag doll, clothed purely in scraps of lucid tissue paper. I would certainly be fired. And this, as is rather apparent, is not a thing which I can stand to afford.

I had, to hand, a meagre total of tuppence and this I had laboriously salvaged in order to ascertain that I could receive a meal tonight. And although I realised that the loss of a job far did outweigh the loss of one singular meal, tuppence was by far to small a price to purchase a blouse, regardless of where it was acquired from.

With the situation, I was baffled. There was no option which would allow me to defend my job and still show up in a remotely honourable fashion. There was no easy route to take. Fortunately, I was accustomed to such circumstances: my initiative was as sharp as a dagger.

I recalled that, hung within the corner of my bedroom, I had a modest olive shawl which I wore about the house on winter occasions for warmth: heat was pricey and a luxury I could not afford. It was a small thing, tattered about the edges, with a few holes poked here and there, but still a right sight better than my current attire. I could drape it over my shoulders, shielding the see-through parts of my blouse, sparing myself great deal of embarrassment. The garment wasn't written under the rules of uniform and I would likely receive some form of penalty, however, the painstaking situation had rendered it my only option.

By this point, I had reached approximately the half-way point between my home and my work (I had been walking whilst avidly pondering my situation) and in realising this, I also realised that if I were to retrieve my shawl, I would become unequivocally late for work. This was a great risk as my boss was unrelenting and far from forgiving. Despite this factor, I deemed it far more of a risk to arrive at the workplace soaked and as though I was imitating a half-drowned rat.

Basing my actions upon this decision, I turned on my heel and sped along the street as fast as the confining length of my stride would allow me to. I dashed along the cobblestone, tripping often on the worn, ancient potholes. I was racing the clock, but in turn, the clock was racing me.

I have, in a great many affairs, found that in an occasion when one finds oneself in a great hurry, the hands of a clock appear to speed thrice up, but when one has the freedom to take a journey at such a leisurely pace, the hands slow thrice down. It is both an odd and bothersome occurrence, which seemingly cannot be altered. A most frustrating of components.

It was due to this fact that I felt great levels of anxiety rising from my gut, urging me forward, despite the hollering pains shooting from the sole of my foot - the result of second hand, ill fitted boots. My heart hammering at a mile a minute while my feet did their very best to keep pace. All together, a rather undesirable situation.

Practically running, I burst through the damp door of the apartment, darting to get my shawl. Upon first entering my bedroom, I could not seem to spot the article of clothing and a deep and almost primal panic set through me. What was I to do? I began rummaging through the pitifully limited pile of washing stacked above my bed, hoping beyond hope to discover it hidden amongst the other musty pieces. My search, like that through the cupboard earlier, was to no avail. Mortified and looking about the room for its whereabouts, I, after a great deal of searching, noticed the tip of a tattered tassel jeering from beneath my bed. Enraged at my own blindness, I dove in an almost frenzy and made a grab at the wool, simultaneously hitting my head on the metal bar of my bed-frame.

In too much of rush to worry about such trivial things as immense pain, I sprang to my feet again and set off at an even more rapid pace than previously.

I scampered, slipping and sliding about over the pavement until I reached the door of the post office. I shan't bore you with the details of my mad dash as each step was extremely similar: step, slip, recover, catch my breath and step again. A rather strenuous task. However, I shall continue on to what met me at said door of the post office. Or rather, who. And how. For it is the how that troubles me. And it troubles me a great deal.

Relief spread over me as a rain to a desert (which was ironic as I was drenched from toe-cap to crown in rain and it was the cause of all my problems in the first place) as the hem of my skirts brushed against the front step of the tiny, drab, stonework building. I had made it, despite all the odds of me not. The gratification was almost breathtaking. I stopped a moment to determine that everything was in order, from the bag slung about my hips to the hairs tucked untidily into my cap. For taking into account the horrendous hurry that I had just endured, each of my garments seemed relatively decent in their appearance; even my sodden shirt had begun to dry, probably from the beating the air had just given it as I rushed by. Pleased, I lifted my foot to step up onto the ledge, finally ready to arrive at work, when a piercing sound echoed through my ears. A sound I had wished fiercely to avoid. A sound that banished the waves of relief that had just rippled through my body to a place far distant in my mind.

A single bell tolling.

It was the sound of the alerting bell for entry into the office. But no one from my side of the door had opened it, meaning a person inside must have. But the post office was not yet open, as I had determined from the petite green sign displayed in the window of the shop. This meant that there was only one person inside the office. And this person was the thing that had so violently repulsed my relief...

The boss stared down at me from his towering height of six feet three inches with the added height of the store's step, an utterly petrifying sight to behold.

His nostrils were flared and eyebrows arched in a manner which I dare not giggle at, despite the frivolous picture his features created. He stood, arms crossed, stance wide, blocking the doorway with his beefy build, most obviously angered. Truly terrified, I stared up moronically at him, awaiting his response, too immobilised with petrification to address the situation.

The cliché, if looks could kill suddenly riddled itself through my mind.

Alarmed as I was, some part of me wished he would hurry with his actions; I felt rather idiotic standing there, drenched as I was beneath his trenchant glare.

A few moments more in the same manner of my waiting and his staring trudged by, until finally his eyelid twitched and his lips pursed. He was about to speak. From his throat erupted a gravelling, hoarse noise, practically a groan and he parted his lips. I expected shouting in the very least, if not some form of beating. What happened however, was far worse. In a voice just a little quieter than your average conversing inflection, he uttered so menacingly that a shiver snaked its way about my spine, wrapping like a thousand sharpened icicles enclosed on my body:

"You. Are. Late."