He groaned again.
His head felt like it was loosely connected and may just fall off his neck and his stomach was on the verge of rebelling with every torrid step he took towards the bedroom.
By the time his claw-like hand reached for the handle of his closed bedroom door he was ready to pass out.
He could only imagine what state he would find his quiet space, if the rest of his flat was anything to go by.
The flight response of turning around and hiding in the bathroom until the nausea passed crossed his shattered mind, if he only had the strength to hobble back.
He took a ragged semi-deep breath and opened the door slowly.
The relief was like a ten pound lottery win to an hungry man!
The room was pristine and smelled nothing at all like the rest of the flat. It was fresh and welcoming.
Whoever had trashed the house had remarkably and thankfully left his room be.
He could’ve cried if he had had any reserve water in his body.
Instead, he sighed and dragged himself in, shutting the door to the hell elsewhere.
He then remembered his task and checked the alarm clock: 11:37.
More blessed relief flooded his system.
He had five hours before he even needed to be thinking about getting ready.
He ever so slowly collapsed on to the comfortable bed, like a sand statue giving way to the elements, sighed so deeply that he nearly retched and drifted off to sleep.
He dreamt of oysters and Feta cheese, giant flowers and men in bow ties wagging tickling sticks.
He then awoke calmly and looked at the clock: 18:01.
‘That’s fine,’ he said out loud. ‘I’ve still got an hour.’
Logic then cleared its throat patiently in his ear.
Panic followed shortly afterwards.