On toothpaste

You’re brushing your teeth and you’re living the dream. All at the same time. You’re not sure whether to change into clean pants though. Even though this is a fancy television production company’s ground floor toilet, it’s still essentially a public toilet, no a communal toilet, used by 100s of staff and they probably don’t care about pissing on the floor and leaving dirty bog roll everywhere because they pay someone else to clean it up.

You’re looking in the mirror, brushing your teeth, thinking, today your life is going to change. You’re looking in the mirror, brushing your teeth, thinking, today your life is going to change, trying to speed up the minty fresh feeling around your mouth because anyone could walk in. And if anyone did walk in and see you brushing your teeth, obviously wearing yesterday’s clothes, it might be time to wake up, because living the dream comes on a short leash.

You were so excited to get this job you neglected to bring a change of clothes. Or a toothbrush. You were so excited to get this job you come to London the night before. You were so excited to get this job you stayed out with friends till late celebrating it before it had even begun. You were so excited to get this job that you missed the last train back to your dad’s and you stayed with a friend who has an early start, ushering you out of the door at 7am, into the street, hung over with nothing other than a half-charged iPad and yesterday’s clothes. You sat in a café across the road from the television production company and you watched Pacific Rim on your iPad at 8am. You went out and bought toothpaste and an expensive pair of pants, because what option do you have in Camden at 9am on a Monday.

Someone was asleep in the café toilet so you watched your film and went to your first ever television writing job early, asking if you could use the toilet. You did, and here you are, brushing your teeth, knowing that from this point on, everything will be different. You are about to have made it.

Your boss for the day walks into the toilet and looks at you as you’re mid-spit. He says your name quizzically and you smile and nod and spit. He goes into the cubicle and you try to finish your tooth-brushing as quickly and quietly as possible as he does a loud fart followed by an empty of his bowels.

You stare in the mirror. You’re living the dream. You’re a writer now.

You have toothpaste on yesterday’s shirt.