|Humor Me| ::A Michael McIntyre Story::

::Chapter 1.1:: {A Day In The Life}

Michael McIntyre's POV:

I ran a hand of cold stiff fingers through my wet dark brown locks. The torrential rain had been the cause of this.

It had only been pouring for five minutes before quitting and then merely starting back up again only half an hour later.

I let out a sigh as I assessed the counter of the small coffee shop. I could smell the beans being brewed as I got closer.

There were two people in the line before me, one of which had just received her java and was retreating back into the cool outdoors.

I let out a deep sigh and gently rubbed the bridge of my nose as the line had subsided, allowing me to reach the counter.

I had gripped it firmly, paying no attention to my surroundings, only focusing on the caffeine that soon awaited my system.

The barista had held up one dainty finger, signaling he would be only a moment. I let out a sigh I had been keeping in for the past few minutes.

I had begun to tap my fingers impatiently on the deep cherry oak colored surface as I waited intently to have my order taken.

The man had finally turned to me, watching me absent mindedly and forcing a smile as his job required him to do.

I took in his appearance at once as I had caught full sight of his entire physical demeanor. I quickly noted the frayed mess he might have called his hair.

It was a wild jungle of greasy black curls that looked like they had not been properly trimmed for ages.

It was an unruly heap of fuzz that had barely reached the top of his eyelids. More importantly he had facial hair to match.

There was a bundle of short prickling stubs that had gone unshaven for what had probably been almost a few weeks.

I rid myself of stubble almost every single morning whether the weather be like this or a cheerful sunny morn.

He had obviously not cared about what he looked like to the outside world. His eyes, much different from the rest of his badly hygienic body, were clean.

They had reminded me of a clear blue pool of nothing but pure liquid with no dirt or filth to soil the awe.

There was a chocolate stain on his deep evergreen smock, just under his white name tag which had read 'Hal Jones.'

I half smiled to myself, recalling my 'Alan Knill' reference awhile back in one of my comedy bits. The Royal Variety show had been kind to me.

No matter how much the wonderful sound of laughter had graced my ears, it never ceased me from wondering if I was ever good enough.

I would find myself asking people who had just seen my show if they found me laughable. I would never really believe them.

People can always fake a laugh... and if so they can almost certainly lie. Perhaps they really hadn't enjoyed me.

What would I do if I found out that nasty piece of information? I would most likely be off my trolley... going mad.

However as inconspicuous my jokes may seem I find them very funny, so at least I know I will always be able to entertain myself...

"Sir?" questioned mister Jones, snapping me out of my infinite mental monologue. I blinked a few times, regaining sight of the man.

"Double Espresso will do." I sighed, and rubbed the bridge of my nose just before reaching into my torn black leather wallet.