It's going to go on and be a murder mystery:
Routine.
08:34am and for once in a long while, Carla Donnelly was on time. The sound of her two uncommunicative, stroppy teenage daughters arguing about who left what where, was true music to her ears as they left the house promptly, but without a goodbye. Of course, something she never thought would cross her mind whilst she still stood here today! She looked around at the kitchen that had cost what seemed like half her annual pay packet, and groaned as she caught sight of the toast crumbs, spilt milk and fallen cereal boxes. In other words, the aftermath of breakfast time in the family home. Glancing over at the grotesque kitchen clock- a present from her mother-in-law, Carla now had exactly forty-eight minutes to feed the cat (an innocent long-forgotten creature for which her arm had been twisted to buy as a Christmas present for her children) reach West Kensington station, and travel to Notting Hill gate. All in all, journey which in good stead should take the best part of twenty minutes to half an hour.
Coffee downed, plaid shirt tucked, briefcase shut and hair neatly pinned back, she left the house, careful to ensure the cat didn’t make a mad dash out the front door, although she wouldn’t be surprised if this was the case, given that these days boys, social networking and spending money you didn’t really have were the more common trends amongst her daughters. As she rounded the corner onto the High Street, she felt somewhat pleased that she could juggle two daughters, Tom- her husband who seemed incapable of parenting, a house that certainly wouldn’t transform itself, and a demanding full time job as a detective- working inhumane hours, meaning she didn’t make it home until the kids had stayed up long enough to watch commercial television broadcasting language that not even adults should be exposed to these days. Of course, Tom didn’t feel it was his place to enforce any type of order. Approaching the station, she was greeted by the very persistent man who graced her with his presence almost daily. He claimed to have been turned onto the streets by his wife- now ex-wife. A truly sorry tale if you were as naive as some people these days. Reluctantly, she pressed a five pound note into his hand just to drive him away from her. She was on time this morning, and wasn’t going to be made late because she had stopped to listen to a story that was all too familiar. The truth was he hadn’t got the cleanest of pasts, which to Carla’s knowledge included short prison sentences for petty crime, vandalism and general anti-social behaviour. On his release, he was greeted by an empty house which once was his family home. Turned out he was also £13,000 in debt, although this was unknown to his wife and children. Although not too unusual, having stories like these under your belt did turn out to be one of the perks of detective and police work.
The tube was heaving, as she embraced the early morning rush of commuters all desperate to get into work before the jobs were gone. The recession wasn’t treating office workers, call centre personnel, or anyone else for that matter, at all well. You would need more than your fair share of hands to count the number of companies held victim to forced closures due to insufficient funding or customers. Although it wasn’t first class travel, and she had the unpleasant, overpowering stench of cheap aftershave lingering at her eye-level, Carla was more than grateful to be able to be commuting to work in a job that was still hers, knowing she earned a steady wage (although, the majority was spent on other people and their desires- usually along the lines of another new phone, computer games, make-up or cinema trips). She was somewhat relieved as the train pulled into the station, picked up her briefcase, adjusted her collar, and was carried out of the sliding doors with the constant stream of people.
Routine.
08:34am and for once in a long while, Carla Donnelly was on time. The sound of her two uncommunicative, stroppy teenage daughters arguing about who left what where, was true music to her ears as they left the house promptly, but without a goodbye. Of course, something she never thought would cross her mind whilst she still stood here today! She looked around at the kitchen that had cost what seemed like half her annual pay packet, and groaned as she caught sight of the toast crumbs, spilt milk and fallen cereal boxes. In other words, the aftermath of breakfast time in the family home. Glancing over at the grotesque kitchen clock- a present from her mother-in-law, Carla now had exactly forty-eight minutes to feed the cat (an innocent long-forgotten creature for which her arm had been twisted to buy as a Christmas present for her children) reach West Kensington station, and travel to Notting Hill gate. All in all, journey which in good stead should take the best part of twenty minutes to half an hour.
Coffee downed, plaid shirt tucked, briefcase shut and hair neatly pinned back, she left the house, careful to ensure the cat didn’t make a mad dash out the front door, although she wouldn’t be surprised if this was the case, given that these days boys, social networking and spending money you didn’t really have were the more common trends amongst her daughters. As she rounded the corner onto the High Street, she felt somewhat pleased that she could juggle two daughters, Tom- her husband who seemed incapable of parenting, a house that certainly wouldn’t transform itself, and a demanding full time job as a detective- working inhumane hours, meaning she didn’t make it home until the kids had stayed up long enough to watch commercial television broadcasting language that not even adults should be exposed to these days. Of course, Tom didn’t feel it was his place to enforce any type of order. Approaching the station, she was greeted by the very persistent man who graced her with his presence almost daily. He claimed to have been turned onto the streets by his wife- now ex-wife. A truly sorry tale if you were as naive as some people these days. Reluctantly, she pressed a five pound note into his hand just to drive him away from her. She was on time this morning, and wasn’t going to be made late because she had stopped to listen to a story that was all too familiar. The truth was he hadn’t got the cleanest of pasts, which to Carla’s knowledge included short prison sentences for petty crime, vandalism and general anti-social behaviour. On his release, he was greeted by an empty house which once was his family home. Turned out he was also £13,000 in debt, although this was unknown to his wife and children. Although not too unusual, having stories like these under your belt did turn out to be one of the perks of detective and police work.
The tube was heaving, as she embraced the early morning rush of commuters all desperate to get into work before the jobs were gone. The recession wasn’t treating office workers, call centre personnel, or anyone else for that matter, at all well. You would need more than your fair share of hands to count the number of companies held victim to forced closures due to insufficient funding or customers. Although it wasn’t first class travel, and she had the unpleasant, overpowering stench of cheap aftershave lingering at her eye-level, Carla was more than grateful to be able to be commuting to work in a job that was still hers, knowing she earned a steady wage (although, the majority was spent on other people and their desires- usually along the lines of another new phone, computer games, make-up or cinema trips). She was somewhat relieved as the train pulled into the station, picked up her briefcase, adjusted her collar, and was carried out of the sliding doors with the constant stream of people.