At ten past seven, the alarm goes off.

Fifteen minutes further on, another alarm joins in.

I awaken and bring silence to the room. I pour some cereal, turn on the computer and start to eat. A pile of dried banana forms as I discard the unwanted pieces, preferring to only eat the raisins and apple from my bowl of Kellogg's fruit and fibre. My e-mails are checked, my breakfast is finished, I start to dress. I find a shirt clean enough to wear, first putting on deodorant, then continue to dress, finishing in short order. Out to the bathroom, the metal strip along the threshold of my room is pleasingly cold to my left foot. I brush my hair into a ponytail and, finding fault with it, pull that one out and do it again. Back to my room, the metal strip along the threshold of my room is once again cold against my left foot as I enter. I pause whatever internal monologue was taking place to parody Jean-Paul Sartre; “Hell is other people? Hell is twelve pairs of almost identical socks”. With the lacing of my shoes and retrieval of my discarded coat (and perhaps a notebook), having ensured I have my keys with me, I'm ready to leave. The computer goes off, the door is locked, I walk the hall and leave the house.

It always amuses me, for some esoteric but known and uninteresting reason, the way the door swings closed and just barely locks behind me, a trick that does not always work elsewhere; I am too accustomed to my own door and often slam other, not quite as heavy, doors at friends' houses. I quite regularly wonder, as I make my way up to campus, whether other people feel the road so clearly beneath their feet as they make their way. I have always felt every bump or crack in the pavement's surface, in boots or shoes of any construction whatsoever, as if I were walking around completely barefoot.

The repeatedly repaired tarmac of the residential maze gives way to paving along the commercial parade and I bob and weave between groups of slow-moving pedestrians in an admirable attempt to maintain a reasonable average speed. After a short time, the ground beneath my feet is tarmac once more and the traffic thins down exclusively to students walking to lectures, though this may seem to be an improvement, I continue to wind my way between them, as the average student has apparently little concern for punctuality at 8:45. Tarmac again gives way, first to staggered paving, then myriad other surfaces as the university's constant program of renewal creates a jungle of patterns. The building I seek rises high above the others from across campus and is quickly reached; I take each of its three flights of fourteen stairs in eight easy strides and bound up the remaining nine two at a time.

Unusually for this lecture, I am on time and find myself a seat amongst familiar faces before resigning myself to the task at hand.

When my lectures finish, I expect I shall find myself at someone's house playing games or watching some television and this is a fairly agreeable state of affairs. But at some point, I will more than likely have to start thinking about going home, either as the evening is replaced with morning or as the clock on the wall finally starts pissing me off with its incessant ticking. Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick “I should be off, see you all tomorrow.” “Ok then, safe journey.” “Thank you, sleep well.”. Having ensured I have my keys with me, I leave for home.

Music filling my ears, my mind drifts rapidly to the steady rhythm of my fluid gait. Left right left right, quickly covering the distance from wherever to home. The streets are empty, but it matters not – I bob and weave as the road changes repeatedly beneath my feet. Left right left right. My thoughts are briefly interrupted by passing drunks, but they are soon just a distant noise as I continue walking at my expeditious pace and cross a road. Left right left nodules curbstone right left right left right curbstone nodules, left right left right and turn the corner on to my road.

I open the door, I close the door, left right left right, one two three four, one two three four. Go through the kitchen and down the hall, I open my door and enter my room. I lock my door and discard my coat, my notebook finds itself space on the floor, as do my shoes.

My computer blinks to life after some time, I type my password, it appears as “********”, I check my e-mails. In the empty room, at the back of a fairly long house, the computer's fan is deafeningly loud and is starting to bother me so late at night. I turn it off in rather short order and mount my bed. I suppose at this stage in the day, it is as well for me to get myself ready for bed and I do so. I strip and replace my clothes with a pair of light trousers suited for sleeping but, it is reasonably likely, not intended for such. Out to the bathroom, the metal strip pierces my thoughts as it passes beneath the sole of my left foot. I brush my hair, I brush my teeth, The metal strip pierces my thoughts once more as I walk back in to my room. The rats are back inside the walls again, they scratch relentlessly and with no determinable rhythm, my back feels cold, my head feels numb. It doesn't ever stop, it doesn't go away, it just dies down for a little while. With a dramatically finite list of available alternatives, my best course of action is to sleep and this provides escape. People wonder why I never have interesting dreams, but I don't dream to embark upon wondrous journeys or fulfil fantasies, my dreams are empty and I am happy.

Until I wake up.