It’s Monday morning, or at least it will be for another thirteen minutes, knowing that the whirring hands of the clock will eventually leak in to the horror that is Monday afternoon and the realisation that I should probably have gotten dressed before the sun reached its highest point in the sky. I suppose that at this time of year that’s probably a little later in the day so there’s an excuse I can use if I need one. Not that I need an excuse to get dressed at my own pace but I don’t seem to get any actual work done until I’m dressed for the occasion, as strange as that sounds, so make sure that next time you want me to do an online board meeting that you send me a tuxedo in the mail, or I might not have got it through my head that I’m supposed to be drinking tea and nodding rather than drinking orange juice and nodding off. Although at some points it feels like there’s not a lot of difference between the two.
Although thanks to my odd university timetable I am immune to the Monday blues, at least in the way that most people have it, because I have the day off, a convention that sounds a lot more relaxing than it actually is, considering the amount of work I should be doing and the large percentage of that work time I spend growling incessantly at sheets of paper trying to work out what the hell they’re trying to make me do.
Famously enough the Boomtown Rats weren’t particularly fond of Mondays but you would think (what with all the money they made from that song) that they’d probably look at them more favourably. Not to call Bob Geldof ungrateful or anything but he should probably go around to the house of the parents who gave birth to the Monday shooter and shake their hands.
And then I should stick a comma into that sentence.