Eleanor Whittaker's Day

The first thing I did when I woke up (at nine:thirty, first time in about eight years that I've gotten up this early, without any apparent cause) was check my e-mails. I read in the guardian weekend magazine that I shouldn't, that I should give my self an hour to relax, and not let technology take over my day, and dictate my actions, but the allure was too great.
Yes, the night before, I had exchanged e-mail addresses with some one I'd just met. We clicked, just like that! Well, I gave him my e-mail address, and he said he'd send me some of his writing (he does a column in one of those magazines that I always pick up, to look intellectual, but never actually read).

There wasn't a message from him (his name is Gareth, by the way, Gareth Jones), which I suppose is what I should've expected. However, I was imbued by spam, and messages from Melissa. I've been ignoring her, and I really should answer them. Don't get me wrong, I do like her, but she just overwhelms me, you know? She's always so perky, and cheerful, and reading a message from her, listening to her speak is like being stabbed to death with an exclamation mark.
It's always : 'Oh! Ellie, how are you!' or, 'You'll never guess what I did today!!' or 'So how have you been?!!!' It really depresses me, how disgustingly cheerful she is all the time.
But I opened the latest message. I have to throw her a bone every now and then, or she'll be all:
'Ellie, have you been ignoring me!!! I've been trying to get through to you in ages!!!!! I have soooo much to tell you!!!' or, in a particularly bad case 'That's it, I'm coming round on Saturday, to see if you're still alive!!!'.
The message goes:
Hi Ellie!
I have a job!!! It's only small, but it pays my bills!!! Morris said Hi!!!...' It only gets worse.

I finally get around to doing some actual work around midday. I actually managed to write something, which Jessica (my agent) will be ecstatic about. I haven't written anything all week, partially because I have writers block, but mainly because I can't be bothered. It's just so tiring sometimes. OK, so I'm lazy. That's why I haven't ever been able to hold down a 'proper job'. To quote my mother. She read one of my books, and she vowed never to do it again. She said it was like being tortured with burning irons, the words 'cynical twit' being branded into her.
I write a paragraph, then go to the cafe on the corner of my road to get something to eat, and for inspiration. For a small cafe, there's always a lot going on.
Today, there are two lovers. The girl is sitting across from the man, crying bitter tears of disappointment. It appears he is breaking up with her, and she appears to be heartbroken, although he must be about ten years older than her, at the very least. She looks beautiful, even with her face tomato red, and her eyes swollen from too many tears. I resist the urge to go and ask the man what could be better than her, and instead sip my coffee in the corner, staring at the other patrons like a demented mad woman. I like breaking down people till all you have are raw emotions, like blobs of colours on a palette. Maybe that's how artists feel, thinking: that orange is a perfect mix of three parts burnt umber to two parts scarlet. How pretty. Maybe not that precise, Artists aren't that practical.
That's one reason why I enjoyed Gareth's company, I was staring at a woman with a huge smile plastered onto her face, clutching a cocktail (it was her fifth, I believe) and talking in an over-loud voice to a man who was aching to get away. I was thinking what's made her so upset? When Gareth came over and said
"Manic depressive. She doesn't need a reason." It was like something out of a romantic novel.

I get home, and write a bit more (after checking my mail, still no Gareth, but more Melissa, which I diligently ignore). Then, I call my mother, so she can't accuse me of being ashamed of her.
"Hello, Ellie darling, how are you? Have you gotten a job yet?" She croons down the phone.
"Mother, I told you, I don't want another job, I find writing hard enough." I say. She ignores me.
"Oh, such a shame, dear. You need a job, how else will you live?"
"Mother, who are you with?" I ask.
"Oh, yes, I've been fine thank you... no, dear, I haven't missed your company, although I think you should come home. I have lots of fun, though, I'm just with auntie Maysie. She sends all her love, and wants to see you." I realise why she's been making up a phone conversation.
"Well, I best go then. I'm sure I shouldn't keep you from 'Aunt' Maysie." I say.
"Bye dear-" I hear her begin (my mother is awful at goodbyes) but I put down the phone.
I write in a new character called Mrs. Feathingill (she bumped into my protagonist on one of those things that immobile elderly people use to get about in, knocking her flat, and then ploughing on, in a typically regardless fashion), and looking back on her, she is remarkably like 'Aunt' Maysie. Mrs. Feathingill is a sadistic, evil minded little old lady, and I think she may have something to do with my protagonists fate- which is undecided as yet. It's a toss up between suicide or murder, at the moment.

At ten p.m., I finally get an e-mail from Gareth. The actual message is brief, it consists only of three sentences (fifteen words, including his name):
Sorry, I have been busy all day. Here are the articles I promised you.
Gareth.
However, there are what would be a sheaf of attachments. I open the first, expecting to find it mind-numbingly boring, and to have died of ennui before it was done. I was pleasantly surprised by the article, which was funnier and more entertaining than I dared hoped... which, I suppose, couldn't be hard.
But then I felt guilty for underestimating Gareth's writing abilities.
After all, wasn't he the man who delighted and excited me with his anecdotes for a large part of last night?
I message him back, just a quick thank you, and then go on to read all fifteen articles before collapsing into my bed, exhausted at three. It's true, we do live in a fast age. Already, I think I'm in love with Gareth.