I woke up, pushed the cat off my chest, and tried to analyse the dream that was interrupted by the wailing screech of the alarm clock, demanding my return to reality. Nothing had changed overnight. Despite the on-going nocturnal drama, my swash buckling, sword slashing dream, dawn revealed I was still a woman. What a drag.

Peeling back the covers, I picked at the dander that had nestled in my nostrils and farted. The resounding echo that bounced across the lilac walls gave me a moment of wishful thinking. Perhaps, I was trans-gender, caught in a female body with the soul of a Viking?

I padded into the bathroom, tasting the bitterness of a lost fantasy, and stopped dead in my tracks when I met the reflection in the mirror. Shit! Not only was I still a woman, I was drop-dead gorgeous. The morning wasn't going so well, but I tried to make up for it by fondling the chick's boobs. Sadly, it didn't do a damn thing for me, and the broad in the mirror started to get pissed off by the interruption.

Shake it off, I muttered, not sure whether Eric the Red would gaze back at me or whether I was sentenced to morning rituals prescribed by some glossy magazine.

The brunette in the mirror glared back at me, defying me to grow pit hair to compete with the bearded remnants of unconscious dreams. I'm a woman. What a drag.

I showered, shaved and spit, trying to retrieve the elusive warrior who'd saved me from this thankless task of framing my life with mismatched chromosomes. The bastard's gone, I mumbled as I pinched my buttocks into freshly laundered spanks. I let the cellulite jiggle and squirm before it finally settled into a mass that resembled an ass, slipped on a piece of cloth that Eric might call a skirt and Gloria Steinem would shriek, "Not just any skirt, you savage. It's a pencil skirt."

The female had returned, and now I simply had to let her have her way with me. With any luck, she'd run out of steam mid-afternoon, just in time to slide into a booth at 'Hooligans' in time to tank up, and take full advantage of the two-for-one happy hour.

It was critical to monitor her fuel in-take in order to meet the time lines. I let one crisis after another plummet her resolve to push the toaster button. Screaming children, incontinent pets, a petulant husband and lost car keys served me well this morning. With any luck the stupid broad would surrender before noon, just in time to partake of the jumbo martini served in the lobby bar of the Drake Hotel. Just a stone's throw from her office, it was a challenge to navigate her towards oblivion, but I planned on giving it my best.

"You call this a report?" Her boss bellowed, flinging the papers onto her desk.

"You're fired."

It was an easy jaunt and the gin tasted familiar.