PMT - A very short flash fiction dedicated to Australia's new Prime Minister

She cursed the clock that made that cursed noise that disturbed her cursed sleep.

As Austagaglia's first female Prime Minister, she was going to have to do it tough. They were all waiting for her to collapse in tears or - possibly worse - to emerge as some Austragaglian Margaret Thatcher. God! Why not just accept her as a Prime Minister - what had gender got to do with anything anyway.

She slammed the coffee pot down. Empty. Someone had forgotten to fill it last night. And there were no Popadoodles for breakfast. How the hell was she supposed to run the country when there was no coffee and no Popadoodles. She opened the fridge and reached for the bread. Or, to be precise, for the bag containing one half slice and a crust. She cursed again. Not even enough for toast. There probably wasn't even any marmalade. She slammed the fridge and checked the larder. Seventeen jars of marmalade. Somehow that made it worse.

She showered - cold water, the heater was on the blink again. More plumbers! Then she dressed and grabbed her brief case from her desk. Of course, as any normal human being would expect, it wasn't closed properly and - in deference to the laws of physics - the entire contents took flight. She chased the paperwork about the room until all had been secured. She felt awful. The day was not off to a good start. Her first day.

The car started (surprise) and she caught seventeen red lights (no surprise). On her way in the security guard asked who she was. Ignorant swine. The guy's first female Prime Minister and he didn't even know her name.

As she fell into her chair in the Prime Minister's office, she felt like she had just run a marathon only to find that the real race was yet to begin. Would it always be like this, she wondered? Or was today just a once off. Just a case of Prime Ministerial Tension.