Goldilocks and the British Accent

03 | Like a Rubik's cube.

The British Accent 🇬🇧

9 June, 10:07a.m.

Dear Diary,
This will be the first and last time I will ever start an entry like this - 'Dear Diary'.
So far, this has been the most stupid idea father has thought of. From sending me to that wretched therapeutic hospital in England to making me watch soap operas in order to 'bring out a positive side of my personality', nothing has been more ridiculous than making me write letters about my 'feelings' to a book named 'Diary'. If you ask me, I've been handling up pretty fine. I haven't lost it once this year, not even when Kate and Goldilocks reared their pretty faces yesterday. I don't need to go to a 'hospital' or write in a 'Diary'.
I can deal with my anger just fine.

• • •

Sitting innocently on top of my mahogany bedside drawer is a 4×4 Rubik's cube, one that took me 3 relentless hours to solve.

During those 3 hours, I decided that Rubik's cubes were very aggravating. They looked tiny and harmless with their small size and colourful sides but they were maddening and made you want to tear your hair out, like some people I knew.

Tap. Tap. A small knock on my room door interrupts my thoughts.

A voice calls from behind the door. "Mr Theodore."

"Drat," I groan from beneath the thick duvet. The knock isn't interrupting my sleep, in fact I have been awake since those blasted sun rays shone through my window, but this is a Saturday morning and I can't think of any reason why anyone would be knocking at my door.

"Go away. Please," I reply to the individual, my voice coming out muffled. "It's only a few minutes past ten."

"I'm very sorry Mr Theodore, but this is very important," The voice persists.

I huff and click my tongue irritatedly, throwing off the duvet and stepping onto the cold floor. "Just a minute."

Opening my large closet, I pull out a light cotton shirt and slip it over my bare torso before walking to the door.

"Good morning Ms Rosetta," I greet our small Mexican maid after opening the door. Till this day, it still baffles me how she hasn't quit her job yet, even when father - in all his vanity and aloofness - doesn't care to notice her, barely acknowledging or giving her enough credit.

"Good morning Mr Theodore," she replies in her usual Spanish accent. "Did you have a good night rest?"

"Yes, I slept fine actually. The heater was a bit off but it was a good rest all the same. So, what's important enough to disturb me so early on a Saturday morning."

"Sorry about that. Your father arrived at a late hour yesterday and he's currently in the dining room. He says he wants to have breakfast with you," she explains.

I notice that her English has gotten better. I also notice how she cleverly avoids my gaze. I can't blame her however. Things had gotten awkward ever since I caught her jamming intensely to Luis Fonsi's Despacito in the basement. It wasn't that her unique dance moves were embarrassing, - they were quite extraordinary for a middle aged woman - it just seemed a bit unprofessional.

"How come? He isn't supposed to return till about a few weeks," I ask her, not bothering to hide my displeasure.

"I'm sorry Mr Theodore, but I do not have the answer to your question. Shall I leave him a message?"