The Alarm Goes Off

The alarm pulls you out of sleep with its insistent buzz. You reach across to silence it, the duvet sliding down just enough to let the cool air brush over your shoulder. For a moment, you just lie there, eyes still closed, listening to the slow rhythm of Tom’s breathing beside you. He’s warm, solid, and still somewhere deep in his dreams.

The house is quiet. No voices yet. No footsteps from the children’s rooms. Just that pale, early light seeping in through the curtains, colouring the edges of the room in soft grey.

You take a deep breath, the faint scent of clean sheets still clinging to the air, and stretch your toes against the cool cotton at the end of the bed. It’s Monday, which means there’s no space to linger, but you give yourself one last moment under the covers before pushing them back.

Your feet meet the carpet, soft and familiar, and you sit there for a second, brushing the hair from your face.

You step into the bathroom, still a little bleary-eyed, and pull your pyjama bottoms and knickers down in one motion. The cool air brushes your skin as you sit, the porcelain firm under your thighs. Relief comes quickly, the sound of it loud in the quiet morning.

You wipe, drop the tissue into the bowl, and flush before standing. The waistband of your pyjama bottoms rests briefly in your hands before you slide them down completely, peeling off your top and dropping both into the laundry basket with a soft thud.

Bare now, you pad back across the landing into the bedroom. The air is cooler here, the curtains still mostly drawn. Tom is still asleep, one arm thrown over the duvet, oblivious to your quiet movements.

You open the wardrobe and crouch down to the bottom drawer where your underwear sits in neat stacks. You pick a fresh pair of pale blue cotton knickers, soft and easy for the day ahead. They slide up over your hips with a familiar snugness.

From the drawer above, you choose a matching bra, lightly padded, smooth under clothes, with thin straps that won’t dig into your shoulders. You slip your arms through, hook it at the back, and adjust until it sits comfortably.

You scan along the rail for something work-appropriate but easy: a white blouse and black trousers, both freshly laundered.

You pad back to the wardrobe, pushing the hangers aside until you reach the little fabric basket tucked on the bottom shelf. Your fingers sift through the rolled pairs until you find them, thin, sheer ankle tights.

You hook your thumbs inside them and step in, easing them up over your feet, smoothing them along. The fabric is cool at first, then warms quickly, hugging close.

The blouse feels cool against your skin as you button it, the trousers sliding up smoothly before you fasten them.

You catch your reflection in the mirror, hair a little messy, skin still fresh from sleep, clothes simple but neat. Another workday starting.