As the kettle whistled on the hob Akbul huffed in the way that a single mother of three children below the age of eight would sigh when going for her shower only to realise the children have already been in there before her. He hated tea, but it was absolutely necessary to get two cups with two lumps of sugar down him before the day began.
He took the kettle from the hob and turned the gas down, sloshing water into his cup and leaving the kettle on the back hob of the stove.
As he clinked his spoon around mindlessly in the cup he asked himself the question we all ask ourselves just before a Monday morning commute.
“What am I doing with my life?”
He splashed milk into his cup and stirred it around, squeezing the teabag against the side of the cup and plopping it, along with the teaspoon, directly onto the worktop. He grabbed the cup handle and wondered out of the kitchen into a small room that could loosely be described as a living room on account of a sofa being present, though the main feature of the room was almost certainly the large green portapotty with the white roof, a plug hanging out of the side and trailing across the entire room to plug into the wall. The floor around the portapotty was covered in ceramic and paper mugs with dried tea around the bottom.
Akbul slurped the tea with a mild irritation and placed the cup on the floor, retrieved the television remote from the sofa and opened up the door to the portapotty where, rather than a toilet was stretch of desert that was completely flat as far as the horizon. He stepped through the door, closing it behind him and immediately bursting into an uncomfortable sweat. He cursed out loud at the two cups of hot tea he had just polished off, wiped his brow, and set off on his journey.