ALARMS & ALERTS

So often, despair follows elation. It's almost as though the Universe is trying to propel me into a bipolar cycle of unutterable highs and unfathomable lows.

Well, get stuffed, Universe. I don't belong to you.

I woke up this morning to the sound of my alarm clock, buzzing into my brain. There are really only two types of alarm call: the gentle lull of harps and clouds, softly rousing you from your slumber... or the jolting emergency sirens which yank you out of your sleep like a sergeant-major with a bullhorn.

I prefer the sergeant major I think. I did try harps and ducks and the gentle tinkle tinkle of a tiny bell but it only resulted in two things: (1) oversleeping, and (2) HATING the sound of that particular ringtone every time I heard it. I figured if I were going to despise hearing any kind of sound it might as well be one which sounds like it should be loathed. After all, the sergeant major with a bullhorn is really asking for it, I reckon.

In any case, the etymology of the word gives the game away: alarm comes from the Italian, 'all'arma' which translates as 'to arms'! Similarly, 'all'erte' (alert) means 'to the lookout'  or 'to the watchtower' - which, you'll agree, is not the gentle sound of jazz piano or soft-strings drifting lazily by. That, my friends, is the sound of emergency, work and boot-lace-ready battle.

So I awoke to the sound of the klaxon blaring next to my head like the prelude to a nuclear holocaust. My eyes cracked open, I sat bolt upright and looked at the luminous numbers flashing a digital green in the darkness. 5:30. Unbelievable. Get stuffed, Universe.

I don't think I'm a morning person.