If the day was a horse, one would describe the movement of it as a trot. It was heading in a forwardly direction with no especial deviation from set pace, and no matter how much Mickey turned the pillow over for the cold side, he was going to have to get up. It was the first day of Mundane May and he was dreading making the first step of the 31 days of that regular, uneventful month. Easing his feet to the carpet he found that his pyjama pants had only ridden up the shin of his right leg. Reaching for his glasses on the bedside table he had to pat around several more times than usual before he found them. Put them on, and they were dirty. He looked at the clock, it was at the innocuous time of 11:05am. Nothing had ever happened at 11:05 in the history of the world, and yet here he was rubbing the fingerprints off his glasses. He made his bed, folding the sheet, and duvet down halfway. Fluffed the pillows and placed them side by each, then decided to put one atop the other. After putting the pillows back the way they were originally he opened the blinds but one end only came up, so he fixed it. The sky was an even spacing of cumulus, and blue, no one was playing in the park across the street. Breakfast was porridge with yellow raisins, and maple syrup. He ate a bowl while he flipped through an Ikea flyer, circling the pieces he would never buy. The shelves gave him the idea to do some dusting, but he had forgotten he dusted yesterday, so read the spines of his books, moving some of them from one spot to another. Putting his oatmeal bowl in the sink, running water in it with plans to let it soak, he looked at the clock on the stove: 12:15am. Maybe he would have a shower, but he might not.