The Writers' Circle

Today is Monday and I should be driving to work. Instead of doing what I'm supposed to be doing, which is staring blankly across my desk knowing my large pile of paperwork is breeding, I'm driving quickly towards a new life. Today is the day that Miss Average dies. Average is such a boring word. It's blunt, unassuming and certainly not ostentatious.  I should be proud to be average, it implies I'm sturdy, forthright and uncomplicated. To be average is to be without the extraordinary and some time ago I realised that perhaps to be average is to merely exist. I am Miss average and I am existing, I am not living. I breath and think but I'm no more alive than the average goldfish.
In my glove box I've packed a small red leather handbag that I bought from Italy last Summer. It was a trip that inspired me, out of the depths of Miss Average rose something irrepressible. I discovered, hidden beneath my beige exterior, a fiery, intense, burning passion that would have burnt my average life to a cinder. I've taken all the essentials, three pairs of clean knickers, a small bottle of vodka to drink before I lose my courage at the Airport and my very expensive and hopefully reliable fake passport. I kissed my fiancée, Mr Average, goodbye as usual this morning. As I had wiped a small dribble of milk from his chin, caused by his hurried munching of cereal, I felt relief and excitement. I was going back to Italy. To a place that was certainly not average. 
As my small car plunged to the bottom of the cliffs my heart began to race violently. What was I doing? The raging grey tide swelled around the small vehicle. I watched just long enough to see the last flicker of red paint underneath the tumultuous tidal surge drift away. My plan had to come together now, let's hope all those organisational skills on my CV were actually up to any good. I made sure that no-one had seen me get out of my car, release the handbrake and casually give it one mighty shove. The tide was in, as I had calculated, and the sea fret they had forecasted on the weather yesterday was perfect. As I fought my way  from the edge of the cliff   thick fog that engulfed me. I sucked in a deep breath of salty air and began to stride confidently to the small silver Clio I had purchased under false details last week. I had parked the car on a doddery old lady's farm about two miles from the cliff edge. I had told her it was a present for my husband and I needed a place to keep it. I also gave her a fistful of twenty pound notes. Marching toward my fresh start I tried vehemently not to let that small niggle of guilt creep in and tarnish my self indulgent glow.