The sun struggled to drag itself over the horizon but it was leagues ahead of me, cocooned in a nest of duvet.  The longest term of the school year had culminated in glitter and carols and ever since I had withdrawn to my bed.  Apart from last night. Prosecco-tinged memories of good times with even better people resurfaced as I considered necking a couple of aspirin.  Too much effort.  A stye festered under my eyelid.

I feigned sleep but there was just so much to do before the interminable drive across South London.   I just couldn’t face any of it.  By some kind of Christmas miracle, the family presents sat wrapped but not labelled by the front door.  I convinced myself that putting them in the boot of car would feel like sufficient progress to warrant a couple more hours’ recuperation.  I crawled out of bed and wrenched on my coat, bending double to reach for the bottom.  The air was cooler down there and I procrastinated for a little longer before fumbling with the zip slider. It was impossible and I almost abandoned the operation.  I winched myself back up by the zip, glancing wistfully at my empty bed.

Dragging on my boots, I set off as quickly as my body would allow, clumsily balancing bags as I descended the stairs.  Somehow, I left the building and the cold air hit my face.  I felt alive.  It felt awful.  Greenback, my trusty £200 VW Polo, was parked opposite and I placed the bags on the road as the boot swung open so I could redistribute the piles of marking.  I slammed the boot shut, rightly proud of my accomplishment.  I reckoned I could get at least four hours’ sleep, which might be enough to render me Christmas-ready.

I crossed back over and swapped car keys for house keys and for some unknown reason (maybe I always did it) looked back at Greenback.  I spotted the flat tyre.  My brain went into overdrive: it was Christmas Eve, would anywhere be open?  Could I drive there?  What was the time?  How much was this going to cost?  I ran back up the stairs and googled Kwik Fit.  Yes!  They were open but not for long; I would drive there now.  It was just over a mile across the icy heath and down the hill.  It would ruin the wheel but what choice did I have?

As I pulled up in the forecourt the mechanic shook his head.  I’d felt every second of the journey, every turn of the wheel as Greenback had crawled towards this archetypal garage scenario and I wasn’t in the mood.  I reached over and wound down the passenger window.

It’s not good,” he said, stating the bleeding obvious but something about his appraisal didn’t make sense to me.

“No, the flat’s on this side,” I corrected him.  He was right, I was wrong.  I had two flat tyres on Christmas Eve and a hangover.

I was keenly aware that my hangover wasn’t over as I sat in the tiny waiting room.  The well-thumbed motoring magazines offered no respite and I weighed up the benefits of free machine tea.  I wished I’d taken the aspirin.  I wished I was the kind of person who kept a first aid kit in the glove compartment.  I wished I was anywhere but here, preferably in bed.

The door opened and in walked another customer, we nodded Merry Christmas to one another, before I retreated immediately back into myself.  I must have looked awful on barely any sleep, wearing the remains of last night’s make up and I hadn’t even brushed my teeth.  However, as I continued to list the different elements that constituted my grossness a horrible realisation hit me.  Getting dressed was never a priority in my original mission, which meant that under my coat I was completely naked.  I closed my eyes and hoped this nightmare before Christmas was all a horrible comedy dream.