Reluctantly cracking an eye open, I peer blearily at the clock on the bedside table and wonder what exactly it is about the time that bothers me.Yeah, okay, I have to get up in an hour, but as less than thrilling as this fact is in itself, it still means that I have sixty extra minutes to remain in bed.  I resigned myself to the inevitability of having to get out of bed at an early age but am finding, as I get older, that it is becoming more and more difficult to accept that one is supposed to function at such a God-awful hour.

Closing my eye, I settle back down and decide that it would be foolish of me to deprive myself of this extra hour of sleep.  I’ll deal with whatever it is that is bothering me over coffee when I get up.  Content with my decisions, I happily prepare to go back to sleep.

Sam shifts next to me and I can’t help smiling to myself as I recall last night’s… ah… activities that went on in and around the bed before finally, exhausted, we went to sleep.  Even though we’ve been together for near on ten months now, I’m still constantly amazed at the sensations Sam can evoke in my body.

Hang on…

The cause of my vague feeling of unease suddenly hits me with all the force of a stampede of wild animals.

Sam!

Shit.  Both my eyes fly open and I find myself staring at the ceiling, fighting rising, inane, panic.  Today’s his birthday and I’m not fully prepared…  Fuck, fuck, *fuck*.  Sure, I’ve got his present -- I’ve had that for what seems like forever -- but that’s it.  It isn’t wrapped, I haven’t written the explanation that needs to go with it and I haven’t written on the card.

No, let me amend that.  I haven’t even bought a card.

Fuck it!

Goddamn Malone and his sudden attack of ‘Oh look, *I’ve* got nothing better to do with my time today, so I think it’s time to have a very long and exceptionally boring training session’.  If I’d had any inkling that yesterday was going to play host to his biannual, sadistic torture session that he believes is conducive to learning, then I would have been able to plan around it.  I’d been foolishly looking forward to a day of simply mooching around the office before sneaking off early to buy a card and finalise everything.

I nearly had a heart attack when Malone strode out of his office and declared that today was going to be the day that every available agent was going to be dragged, kicking and screaming, up to speed with the latest in international terrorism.  To add further insult to injury he was so enthused by his topic that he even let the moths out of the budget and ordered in lunch.  We were trapped like rats in a laboratory maze.

By the time we were all well and truly conversant in all things terrorist, night had fallen and my desire to buy a card had been obliterated by my need for a drink.  After this need had been sated, somehow --  I can’t exactly remember how it eventuated -- Sam came back home with me and we continued drinking.  Well, that is to say I had two beers and Sam had an entire bottle of wine.

Quite frankly I was pleased to see the wine go.  The blasted bottle had been sitting in my fridge since Christmas.   I swear it looked at me accusingly every time I looked in the fridge.  How the hell was I supposed to know that a) Sparkling Burgundy was supposed to be drank cold and b) it was unique to Australia and he’d never heard of it before?  Sheesh.  I thought I’d done well to remember that red wine -- *most* red wine -- is drank at room temperature.  Trust me to buy the exception to the rule.  As it is I refuse to ever set foot back in that wine shop again as I suspect my immense lack of knowledge on the subject is *still* probably causing the staff great mirth.  Personally I don’t see what is so amusing about picking wine on the merits of how aesthetically pleasing it’s label is…  It’s not like I’m going to drink the muck myself so it may as look good.

Anyway, better late than never, Sam seemed to enjoy it.  If nothing else, I thought it looked pretty.  Like aerated Ribena.  Pity it smelt like paint stripper and, as far as I’m concerned, it didn’t taste much better.

I watched, quietly fascinated, as Sam steadily worked his way through the bottle.  It was almost as though he was drinking, not that he said anything to back this theory up, in order to chase away his birthday.  I didn’t say anything, or try and raise the subject, as to even mention the word birthday would have made the fact that I wasn’t exactly organised spring to mind.

It was too late to do anything by that stage though, so after making a mental pact to get up early to wrap and compose, I simply went with the flow.  It wasn’t exactly a sacrifice.  The wine appeared to have absolutely no discernible effect on Sam and, well, although the sex may be history, I still feel as though I’m glowing in the aftermath of it.

Biting back a sigh that I know if I were to voice would sound as though I’ve just been told that the world is coming to an end, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and slowly sit up.  I hope that if the wine is to have any impact on Sam it will be that he won’t wake up until I’m ready for him.  I’ve put too much thought and worry into his present to have it all fall apart on me now.  It’s not exactly something I can just shove at him and blithely wish him a happy birthday.

Minutes pass as I sit on the edge of the bed and stare morosely around me in the dim morning light.  Christ, I hate mornings.  There’s something unnatural about having to see the sun rise.  At a push it’s acceptable when camping or on a mission, but at home?  Like hell.  I’d almost rather vacuum.

Making an effort, I gingerly get off the bed and try to formulate a plan as to what to do.  The cool air lightly caressing my naked body makes getting dressed a pressing priority and, snatching randomly at a pile of black on the floor, I triumphantly grab a pair of black jeans.  Unfortunately, to obtain boxers would necessitate a trip across to the other side of the room. As I really don’t want to wake Sam, I don’t have any other choice but to put the jeans straight on over bare skin.  I find the prospect of doing this about as pleasing as I find mornings in general.  The way I see it, it’s a blatant myth that wearing no underwear is sexy.  It’s not, it’s bloody uncomfortable.  I grimace as I start to pull them on.

How the *fuck* could denim get so cold?

Fighting the urge to mutter under my breath, I finish pulling the jeans on, tentatively do up the zip and, making an extreme effort not to ‘rearrange’ myself, I look around for a top to wear.  Out of the corner of my eye I see Sam’s purple shirt, hung neatly over a chair, and decide that I may as well put that on.  I mean, why not?  It’s silk and sure to a damn sight more comfortable than the jeans.  Not to mention I like the colour and know that it will smell of Sam.

Sneaking over to the shirt, I narrowly miss tripping over a shoe and have to merely content myself with stubbing my toe on the chest of drawers instead. A number of creative expletives jump into my head and I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from bringing them to life.  Perhaps there might be a point to being tidy after all.  Grabbing the shirt, I all but hop out of the room, gently pull the door shut behind me and only then do I allow myself to sigh.

Today has *got* to improve.

I pull the shirt on, luxuriating in the soft texture of the fabric and meander, as though on auto-pilot, towards the kitchen.  Time limit or no time limit, I’m not doing anything without first having coffee.  Sam thinks I’m addicted to caffeine and, after walking past four cafés one day because I couldn’t smell the flavour I wanted, I’ve given up trying to argue with him.

The coffee-machine beckons to me tantalisingly.  I’d like nothing more than to set it in motion but know that the aroma would wake Sam and, begrudgingly, have to settle on -- the sacrifices one has to make -- instant.  I only keep the muck for emergencies like this.

After checking the kettle for water and finding it half-full, I switch it on and for the want of anything better to do, look out the window.  To my distinct amazement there is an old man in the cemetery doing what I suspect would have to be Tai Chi.  The graceful movements of his limbs and the peaceful expression on his face backs this theory up.  This in itself is not particularly amazing, but what I’m having more difficulty with is the fact that he is out and about at this time of morning when he doesn’t have to be. Who knows, by the time I’m his age (*if* I reach it) I too might view mornings in a different light.  On the other hand, pigs are just as likely to fly and, gosh damn, NASA was wrong all along and the moon *is* made of cheese.

What can I say?  Lack of caffeine in the morning is apt to make me even more cranky than usual.  Okay, I admit it!  I’m addicted.  So sue me.

It’s a hell of a lot better than the sleeping pills.

Willing the kettle to hurry up already and boil, I turn away from the window, ferret the dreaded instant coffee out from the cupboard and put a heaped teaspoon of it in a mug.  The water finally boils  --  praise the Lord -- and after filling my mug, I leave the kitchen and head in the direction of the study.  Miraculously, I don’t trip over anything in my path and manage to make it without spilling any of the coffee.  Nudging the door open with my foot, I enter the study and turn the light on.  Instantaneously everything is bathed in light and for a split second, as I look aimlessly in the direction of the computer table, I can’t see the present.  Yet another unwanted tremor of unease works it way through my body.  If I’ve misplaced the damn thing then that’s it, I give up.  All being well I’ll be able to make it to Harrods at some stage today and I’ll just stand there, waving my Visa around until someone takes pity on me…

It’s not like I haven’t done it before.  In fact, it’s how I usually buy gifts.

But not this time.  Not for Sam.  It wouldn’t feel right, especially not after everything I’ve been through organising the currently missing present.

Goddamn it!  Where is the fucking thing?  Stalking over to the desk, I deposit my mug of barely acceptable coffee near the printer and proceed to push miscellaneous items around like someone possessed.  Half of an unfinished report flutters to the floor but I don’t bother picking it up. It can wait.  I have enough things on my mind without worrying about some stupid report.

The desk looks like a mini tornado has hit it by the time I’m finished scrabbling and there is still no sign of the present.  Sinking down in the chair, I sigh heavily and begin to wonder whether I’ll luck a nice shop assistant at Harrods.  Probably not.  The way my day is going I’ll most likely get someone who is twenty years past retiring, has worked there since they were twelve and moves at the speed of a crippled snail.  Oh, and they’ll have bad breath as well.  No doubt about it.