Weekend's Slip Away

The afternoon just floats away, drifts, just like that. Gone forever. Two days never go as quickly during the week, as the days of the weekend.

All over now, big, fat cow.

The ratio of days that begin with ‘S’ to all other days beginning with any letter in the week is the smallest day to fun ratio there is. True fact. So, the feeling that ‘S’ days go quicker is not imagined at all.

Okay, there are ‘T’ days too, but I think that rather proves my point, rather than disproves it. Okay, we used to go out on Thursday nights when we were 10 years younger and new to the whole going out thing, and we used to go home have a shower and change our clothes and go straight to work, yes, yes, we did, but only fleetingly. I’m still not sure how we managed that?

So, those couple of years elevated ‘T” days way above what its fun ratio should have been, but you still have ‘T’ for Tuesday, and nobody has ever had fun on a Tuesday. There are, of course, public holiday Mondays that elevate ‘M” for Monday up the fun ratio ladder, occasionally, and that has the effect of making Tuesdays more miserable, occasionally, which really diminishes any fun ratio, I would argue non-existent, for ‘T’ for Tuesday completely.

So, here I am on the cusp, the precipice, of I-hate-Mondays, the fun ratio of the ‘S’ days disappearing rapidly, like a deflating balloon. I kind of imagine Monday, after Sunday midnight, actually making that noise. You know, the continual fart noise as the air deflates in our enthusiasm, like all of our expectations. You can quite understand the motivation of, oh, if I name her will it conjure up the ghost of NRA achievements past? Suffice to say, I have never known a good Brenda. 

The weekend is all but over. The fat lady is warming up. She’s pulling on her size 25 moo-moo and practising her scales. She’s having her last diva moment when her raw egg drink is slow making it to her.

And now I lay my head down to sleep, quietly weeping into my pillow at the stage at which we now find ourselves, the quiet, collective cry of the workers before they are forced back into servitude for another week, month, year, and our miserable lives slip from our grasp, like trying to catch water in our hands.