Clara Shane's day

Clara Shane's day... did not start well.
She woke up, half an hour after her alarm went off, groggy because she'd gone to bed too late last night. Not for an interesting reason, but because she'd had a mountain of dishes to wash.
She stumbled out of bed, and hit her head. On what, she never found out. She thought it was the wall.
Her journey to the bathroom was better, being completely uneventful. She failed to trip on a leftover toy, or pile of clothes, and made it into her shower without incident.
The water was cold. They were 'fixing' a water main outside, and it had affected the water supply to the whole house. Getting hot water was a praiseworthy task, but one that was nigh on impossible.
It was not a good day for clothes either, but Clara managed to find something that would pass muster.

Clara finally left her house, ten minutes late, and walked up her road, her art folder banging against her leg, and her hair- untamed- getting absolutely everywhere.
Her bag was heavy too. Clara wondered if random yet unfortunate events were just in abundance that day, or if they were conspiring against her. No one answered, which is not strange, because, even if she had said it aloud, no one was around to hear her.

No one was at school. Well, no, there were people at school, but no one worth considering. During registration, Clara sat alone, trying unsuccessfully to do something with her hair.
Her day looked up, as one of her friends turned up halfway through maths. About time, Clara thought.

That was as good as Clara's day got. A little bit of delayed-reaction dis-orientation from her bump on the head that morning hit her just as she was leaving her art classroom for lunch, and she walked- quite catastrophically- into a boy she had liked for about two years.
The result of this was that his first words to her ever were: 'What the hell? Walking with your eyes open helps!', a smothered giggle from her one present friend, and her lunch escaping somehow into her bag.
She wondered if she would ever be destined to have a reasonable life.
She doubted it.

Clara went home, after her post-art incident. She cried, for about fifteen minutes, and decided against going back to school.
She thought she might as well forgot today-it had been doomed from the start- and focus on making tommorow better.

Clara's awful day ended with her shutting the heavy drapes of her bedroom, thus creating a false twillight, and getting into her comfiest pyjamas. Which was just as well, really, because she hit her head again- this time on the post of her bed- and didn't wake up for two weeks.