shit, shower, shave

In the mornings, on weekdays, when the clock sings that usual ugly song, I lay and breathe, the winter days cold and quiet, the sun not raised a lid; never seems as interested as me in the alarm.  
 
I rise in a burst of movement, out of my warm cell of blankets, like to explode into the day with a growl “get up, motherfucker”, then lay out my work gear on the bed; keys, smokes, phone, lighter, belt, socks, jeans, shirt.  
 
I take a towel and walk out my balcony door, take a quick look at the weather, swear again if it’s raining, ‘cos there is no money running heavy machinery in the rain, walk the balcony past the dogs, all asleep in their heap, pat the good one first, reach my hand soft and slow under his head, say quietly “hey mate”.  
   
He wakes enough to give me the love-eyes, and I stroke him longest, then the young dog gets a pat ‘cos he dies if I don’t, then last to old Sammy who’s a bit of a cunt, been mistreated somewhere along the line, but always pat him anyway cos it wasn’t his fault.  
 
Stand back up when I done, stretch out good, make for the shower room, take a shit. The day really starts then; a good solid push-and-out job means the day is going to be organised, anything else is an omen of some other kind.  
   
Wash my hands, shower, then decide to shave or not, which really only depends on whether the boss is flying in from the city. Dry off, go back to my room, dress, go to the kitchen, the cats already lined up for whatever they can get, sprawled all over every chair. Never do have the heart to move them, so take my tea to the balcony again, stand and watch the birds gathering to their mates, calling and flitting and talking up the day.  
   
I smoke two smokes, the first thoughts of the job creeping in, always resent that when it starts to make itself known, the beginning of the immersion, of the pulling on of that disguise.  
I try to hold it off while I smoke, think of whatever works, usually boats and the sea, what the coastline must look like today, and never think of women. Not one for thoughts of them early on, unless they’re naked beside me, and even then like to wait until after breakfast.  
 
After that last moment of myself I flick the second butt to the garden, take my work-gear off the bed, switch off the light, walk to the truck, switch my phone on and become that other bloke, the one who makes the money, and that’s about all the love I'll ever have for him.