As an instinctive night owl and habitual evening quaffer who requires a full eight hours of sleep, yet who strangely loves getting up early, most of my mornings are a struggle.

As a planning addict (almost never follow through but get off on the thrill of planning) my struggles are further compounded with a bunch of self-imposed, idealistic and totally unnecessary rules such as my recent 8-9-10 rule.  It goes like this: I have to be washed, dressed and ready to start working or leave the house by 8am.   An alarm on my phone goes off at 9pm to alert me that I have around an hour and a half to wind up the day and get to bed, and finally, I must complete a minimum of 10 hours exercise every week.  None of this ever happens and so I spend 8,9,10 minutes each morning beating myself up for not being supercharged and in control of my life.

My days then start with an alarm snooze fest and a generous helping of self-reproach while my autistic cat walks over me in a bid to be fed.  I once woke to something scratching my cheek and was horrified to realise it was a piece of cat litter stuck to autistic cat’s ass that she was gently rubbing on my face.   My other cat who is bulimic, doesn’t care when I get up but does love throwing up in hard to reach places just as I am about to leave the house.

I have more than one master and therefore more than one stream of income, although in reality these are trickles of income that I am working at converting to raging torrents.

If I am viewing rental properties, I drive to the office to pick up my appointment list and keys.  My car becomes my office and is usually covered in a layer of maps, home reports, keys, Harry Potter and Agatha Christie CD’s, baby wipes and a top layer garnish of crumbs.

When I am selling apartments, my office is a trailer on the side of the road in front of a construction site and if I wore a boob tube and resumed smoking I would look almost exactly like Britney Spears mid breakdown.  I don’t mind being surrounded by men and machinery but sometimes the fog of testosterone is so thick I choke.

I usually work in the evenings typing up inventories of apartments ready to rent, or flit around online.  I don’t watch much television although recently I treated myself to the extended editions of all three Lord of the Ring movies.  It amazes even me that I cry at all the same parts every time, especially when Theoden rouses the Rohirrim by clanging his sword against their front line spears before charging into battle.

For dinner I either go all out and cook something from scratch, or eat crackers/bread and cheese leaning against the sink.

I finish most days with a glass of something medicinal and always fall asleep to an audio book.

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