Nobody wakes up and expects their entire life to change within a cruel instant….
Think about your daily morning routine.
Wake up, have a coffee, breakfast, shower, brush your teeth, get changed and head off to work perhaps?
Whatever your routine may be, or maybe if you don’t even have a set routine, you certainly never wake up and expect tragedy to hit you that very morning. Unfortunately I one day woke up one fateful morning, unaware of the disaster looming for me just mere minutes away.
Our story takes us to 2009.
I was nineteen and living alone with the girlfriend for the first time, a nice little bedsit.
Now a pipedream for seven year old me was ‘doing whatever I wanted’ when I finally move out, if I recall my main goals once I got to this level of independence was to own my own Playstation and have a pet Tiger.
I unfortunately at nineteen never owned that Tiger so I had to resort to my Plan ‘B’ of doing whatever the hell I wanted when living alone.
I had PopTarts for breakfast.
The Poptart selection wasn’t the most impressive to boast about, Strawberry, or chocolate flavour was the main dilemma of my life that fateful morning. After much umming and ahhing I finally opted for strawberry.
Unwrapping the packaging with hungry anticipation, I think ahead to the unhealthy, yet sugary satisfaction that would be my early-afternoon PopTart.
I put the Poptarts into my Argos £4 toaster.
“Do you want some Poptarts?!” I ask girlfriend.
“No” She simply replies. Good, more for me in the grand scheme of things.
The next three minutes go by slower than any three minutes in the history of everything. I eye the toaster like a wily fox, watching the pink Poptart icing glow a hypnotic orange from the toaster.
Without warning the ‘eject’ sound of the toaster filled the room, however that unruly day I learned the perils of cheaping out on toasters, and any white goods in general.
Instead of holding their place in the toaster, my Poptarts were now airborne, the cheapy Argos toaster quite clearly had no chill whatsoever when it came to morning goods dispensing. One Poptart hit the bottom of the overhead cupboard and dejectedly landed on the kitchen side, icing first.
The other Poptart was ejected much farther into the air, and thus was making it’s way to a very quick collision course with the kitchen floor.
Life, went in slow motion that moment, my pink, strawberry dream Poptart dancing in the air unaware of it’s impending doom. A dirty, tacky linoleum floor awaited it.
I had to act fast.
Without a secondary thought I tossed my plate to the side and absent-mindedly made an attempt to catch said Poptart.
The rescue mission was a success, I had managed to catch the Poptart just mere feet from the floor. However it came at a price.
The Poptart had landed icing first onto my palm causing a slight burning sensation to be felt, in the heat of panic however I grasped onto the Poptart causing the then red hot jam filling to splurge out into my hand.
“FUCK!” I yelp dramatically.
Hand now burning with the same intensity as the fires of hell itself I wave my hand in agony, the crumpled, crumby abortion of a Poptart now falling to the floor covering it with jam, icing and pasty.
My good, pre-Poptart mood now diminishing into a mopey dejection as I nurse my throbbing hand in a bowl of cold water. I dismissed all plans I had that day and probably came close to some form of Pop-depression.
I didn’t even eat the other Poptart.