Monday’s - hate them, but then again, don't must of us anyway? If I was to mark each day out of 5 and work out a yearly average then Monday would without doubt be the day with the lowest average, and by a long way, but I’m not going to do that, it wouldn't be right.
Today actually started alright, probably just above average (for a Monday). I had woken from approximately 7 hours sleep, which is about par for me and I woke relatively fresh. Shower – check, breakfast – check, clean teeth – check, dressed – check. So far so good.
I grabbed the Rolling Stones album I'm borrowing off Dowler (Let is Bleed) as I was leaving the house and whacked it on my car stereo and I was relatively enjoying the first trip of the week to the dreaded hell hole. The journey went incident free, that was until I heard what I thought was the car next to me beeping, 'shit, I've started to drift across again' I thought, but I looked to my right and there wasn't a car there. It took a few seconds to realise I had mistaken a sound on the stereo for a real life sound, I always feel like a tit when that happens and slightly embarrassed, despite no-one else knowing what has just occurred.
I got to work well before I was due to start, enough time to settle down, read any important (non work related) e-mails I may have received over the weekend and enjoy the first cup of tea of the day. But as I walked through the doors I noticed something wasn't quite right. Why was no-one else on the department wearing the standard work attire? why is everyone wearing jeans and t-shirts on a Monday? Not for the first time and certainly not for the last I had forgotten it was casual clothes day, it's no biggie but no matter how many times I forget I always feel like a complete dick. It also means I have to listen to countless people come up with that line 'casual clothes today Gav.' Yeh, very funny, piss off.
By now I've realised I'm a lot less awake than I earlier thought and feeling a lot lower, I could battle the Monday blues, but what's the point? it's going to get you eventually so you may as well lay down and die, give up the battle. The morning carried on in an oh do similar routine, speaking to customers I really couldn't care less about and feigning empathy for the fact their 2 year old grandson has put a 3 iron (golf club) through the TV screen. We both know this hasn't really happened anyway. Lying bastards.
Lunch time arrives, always the highlight of every day. It's a chance to talk bollocks with pals Matthew and Ian. Ian isn't in at the moment, he's currently in Vegas and is probably enjoying a lap dance as I type. I don't know the time difference, so I don't know what the time is, but I doubt that has any relevance.
Because I couldn't be bothered to make myself sandwiches I was forced to buy my lunch. My chosen 'meal' was one of those pasta pots you get at the takeaway section in supermarkets, a depressing lunch at the best of times, made worse by the fact you have to eat it with one of those shitty, flimsy plastic forks, pathetic. And it was the shitty, flimsy plastic fork that was at least partially to blame for the spilling of the food down my work shirt. Ok so I was probably mostly at fault, I probably loaded too much food onto the said shitty, flimsy plastic fork and undoubtedly tried to move it towards my mouth too quickly, but whichever one of us was to blame, it didn't change the fact I had to spend the day looking like a kid who had been left to feed himself for the first time.
The day was already a lost cause, I was in a shit mood and all the cups of tea and custard creams in the world weren't going to make a difference as much as I let them try. Tuesday tomorrow, I wonder what excitement the second worst day of the week will bring, don't worry though, you won't find out, this isn't a diary.
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