One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven. Eleven steps on the way down. And then twelve paces. I can do it in ten, though, if I try. Maybe even in eight.
And then, escape. I escape every morning at 10 am in a little red and white plastic cup half filled with murky brown bubbles. Nodding, smiling, the occasional hello. It’s kind of like My Cover. I am Jane Bond. I am Super Woman. I wear my underwear on the inside, of course.
Funny that as a kid you never say your ambition is to attain temporary salvation in a disposable cup of lukewarm instant coffee. Rinse and repeat. I remember I wanted to be a princess. I even drew a stick princess in a pink dress and purple high heels and stuck silver sequins on her crown. Most of my friends wanted to be teachers, nurses, doctors. A pilot or two, a fireman. A father. The type with kids, I think, not the Catholic priests.
And now my mission, my vision, my raison d’etre lies within the dregs of these endless cups of Nescafe. It all starts with a Nescafe, though I have never been quite sure what “it” means. It probably means that magic blend of coffee, milk and sugar that pours out when you slide in a coin and press the right buttons.
We get it for free over here.
Twelve paces again, and then one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven. Eleven steps on the way up. The number never changes, but I count, just in case. Because you never know for sure, anyway. The frequency of deaths caused by slipping on the stairs is quite underwhelming, to say the least. Sad, because it looks SO cool in the movies.
I wear my purple high heels, just in case.