My Best Face

6:30am. The alarm screams. I ignore it, try to, fail. Three swipes at my phone screen. I lay back, eyes closed. A small moment of quiet. I consider resetting the alarm, stealing another ten minutes of sleep. There's no point. It won't help. Indecision. A staring contest with the ceiling. The ceiling wins. I push away the duvet. The cold air attacks me. Sat on the edge of the bed, head in hands, I try my luck staring at the floor. The floor wins. I go the kitchen. The kettle bubbles accusingly. I have no answer to its reproach. Cereal, yoghurt, coffee, three sugars. Stir. Stare. I lose to the bowl. News streams on my iPad. New terrorist force threatens in previously inconceivable ways. Socially and morally inept, self-serving politicians are doing more socially and morally inept and self-serving things. The world is the same place as always. I turn it off. Silence shouts me down. I turn it back on. The fear and hatred that spews from the screen is less violent than the silence, and the food in the bowl that must be eaten for no other reason than "it is breakfast time". Empty bowl to full sink. It takes too long for hot water to come. When it does, it pours down me, round me, enclosing me in a comfortable embrace. Soap washes away the sleepiness and the aches of the previous day. I could stay in this comfortable womb forever, but the coldness returns, expelling me. Refuge is a towel.

7:15am. Make up. "Putting on a face" they call it. How apt. We'll call this face Catherine. Neutral, well presented, reliable, inoffensive. "Professional" I think Catherine would call it. Navy suit, cream blouse, plain earrings.

7:30am. Out the door. Catherine smiles at my neighbour backing out of her drive. Two bland smiles, instantly forgotten. Coffee shop next to the tube station. Same barista as always. I'm wearing "warm friendly face". Lets call her Emma. She chats full of enthusiasm. It's a worthwhile investment for the days that she is offered a free croissant. Apparently today is that day. The barista 'kinda likes' Emma. I 'kinda like' him. I'm waiting for him to ask her out. Neither Emma nor I are brave enough to ask him.

7:40am. On the tube. Face set to "don't talk to me, don't look at me, don't hold me up". This face is Edna. Edna reflects the sentiments of every other commuter.

8:40am. Entrance of office building. Emma makes a brief appearance for the security guard on the front desk. It makes life easier at Christmas when I need online purchase deliveries signed for.

8:50am. My desk. The boss is already in. Internal sigh. Boss approaches. Catherine steps in. The boss likes Catherine. Catherine can handle the ego-massaging the boss requires, but without brown-nosing. Catherine navigates the office politics with ease. Catherine is the one the boss sends to meet with high level clients, she knows how to be professionally charming. Good for Catherine. I drink my coffee, eat my croissant. Peace for two minutes.

9am. The office fills up. Katie takes over. Katie asks after peoples' weekend, shares anecdotes, laughs, makes rounds of coffee. Katie hands out the little bags of mini-muffins that I made this weekend. They are devoured. Thanks flow in my direction. Katie excepts them gracefully. She enjoys it too much. I cringe. No one notices.

6pm. Out of the office. Join the masses on tube. Squeezed into a tin can like sardines. Why do we do this? Edna's face on for protection. Usually I would decide what to buy for dinner, what to watch on TV. This evening I have an invitation to go for drinks. Don't really feel like going, but don't feel like sitting alone on the sofa either.

8pm. Arrive at the bar. Skinny jeans, fitted band t-shirt, stiletto heeled boots, messy hair, rock-smudgy make-up. A group of six waiting for me. Greeted with a barrage of hugs and cheek-kisses. I might be flattered, but I know this affection isn't for me; these guys are the same with everyone. Cat jumps in, has everyone laughing over a story about my boss. I surrender to Cat. One eye on the clock for the last tube.

12:35am. Home. Kick off shoes and drop onto the sofa. Stare expressionless at the wall. Drained to the point of numbness. I dislike them all. The faces. I wouldn't choose any of them. Bathroom. Face wipes remove the marks of other faces. Mine stares back at me. Am I crazy? Maybe. Too many faces, too many voices, too many opinions. One truth. I am alone in the control centre of my brain, attempting survival in the world. Unseen, unheard, unthought-of, unknown. Here just the same. My best face.