The Monday to Friday was something I had a strong understanding of when I was submerged in the boring and murky pond of full time employment. I looked forward to Friday even if Saturday contained nothing better than Tuesday. It was a natural progression and one that everyone around me seemed to uphold with vengeance so I followed suite. A new life thesedays reckons a new weekly structure, but when the world shares an opinion for the days of the week you just can't help but be affected. Fridays are still my favourite day.
Monday
What is Monday? Monday hurts. Monday hits you repetively with a heavy brick, resulting in a heavy and long lasting pain that throbs throughout the day. You curse Monday as it wakes you against your will with a shrill alarm tone, throws you into disarray as you have to forage for the things you should have organised for the week ahead but didn't. A Monday's pain can be slightly subdued if said organisation is adhered to, if your Sunday self is kind to your Monday being. Clean washing and milk that isn't past its use-by will help you find a smooth Monday path. Even if you work on a Sunday, Monday still hurts, because the world hates Mondays and the world's discontent is completely contagious (more so than swine flu). Mondays demand creature comforts, generally in the form of carbohydrates, and unchallenging tasks. Monday mornings generally feature tired eyes and an aromatic waft of caffeine. Short tempers reign supreme on a Monday. Be calm, eat your pasta with excessive amounts of creamy (and delicious) sauce, wait for the storm to pass. It's just a storm, after all.
Tuesday
Tuesday is Monday's child, and is a horrible wretched spawn. But Tuesday can be tamed, soothed, trained into good behaviour if its fed the right encouragement and rewards. Happy Tuesdays are not uncommon, usually because everyone feels utmost joy at the fact it is no longer Monday. Cheap movie tickets help with this. On Tuesday you can fathom productivity again; there is less of the mania that surrounds Monday. Tuesdays sometimes feature as clean-up day, in which you sweep up the broken glass that the storm that was Monday shattered all over the kitchen floor. You can enjoy vegetables on a Tuesday. Tuesdays are easily forgotten.
Wednesday
That's not to say that the point of this ramble (because there so obviously is one) is to determine that Saturday and Sunday are the best days. Such a theory could wield to be completely untrue depending on your routine. If Wednesday holds devilish tasks for you, you will resent Wednesdays with far more fury than Mondays. Wednesday was always hard to spell, and commonly sounded out with emphasis. Perhaps 'emphasis' is a good way to summarise Wednesday. There is emphasis on the fact you have now reached the middle of the working week. Hello Wednesday, friend of Thursday, followed by Friday.
Thursday
You can justify behaviours on a Thursday that you couldn't do on another weekday. Thursday feasts are common; abandoning homework or exercise plans for mass television viewings or unnecessary outings are common. Thursday is pay day; financial woes tend not to exist on a Thursday. Thursday is holding hands with Friday, their fingers are entwined, their hands are so closely clasped that you forget they aren't joined. You usually sail happily from Thursday to Friday, feeling the wave of motion from another's fingers to your own.
Friday
You are everybody's friend on a Friday. Waking up at the crack of dawn is less painful because chances are, Saturday won't greet you with the beep-beep of an alarm clock. Though many will refuse to recognise that Friday shares several key characteristics of Monday, it is true. Fridays are usually also unchallenging, but instead of having sharp and pointed edges like Monday, Friday is smooth, rounded, easy to hold. Friday afternoons are slightly lethargic, slightly antsy, as everybody's waiting. Friday has 24 Happy Hours - everything is more pleasant because you are most likely doing it for the last time before respite comes in the form of weekend. Friday afternoons are like an overstretched elastic band that has finally been allowed to slacken. Don't try and make a useful phone call after 4pm on Friday afternoon, because nobody wants to speak to you. You cannot get anywhere fast enough at 5pm on a Friday. (Please note that 5pm could be 1pm, 2pm, 3pm etc. A Friday finish is not exceptional).
All I will say about the weekend is Saturday smells like clean sheets and train tickets; Sunday smells like eggs on toast and newspapers.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Saturday, March 13, 2010
We're not the baby boomers
I remember the brush fence that had been built around the house that bust the budget, balanced on the hill with the sea encircling it like a decorative wallpaper. The woodheap next door was what attracted the snakes, and they would creep along the tops of the brush fence, hiding amongst the coarse bunches of sticks brambled together with wire. Gumboots and a shovel went hand in hand when the discovery of a snake was made, and I never saw the outcome that came after that, whether it was through shielding my own eyes or being called away from the window (so essentially someone else shielding them for me).
I remember how angry she was at the lack of street signs, at the winding roads in the place that there seemed to be a constant mist of rain from June until September. The anger at the warren of turns and blind corners, the slippery roads and the dull yellow headlights, turned into joy, when spring finally tickled our chins with warm fingers and the blossom tree at the bottom of the driveway burst into a calm array of pink and white.
I remember the smell of disinfectant that I came to associate with moving house, as we scrubbed out cupboards, wiped away the dust on skirting boards and powerpoints, the type of cleaning nobody really bothers with unless it's thought someone will examine these spaces with an attention to detail. There was a makeshift wall made from cupboards and boxes, which gave me a new appreciation for doorknobs, even if they didn't have locks. She would buy the discounted flowers from the supermarket, the wilted and sad ones, then nurse them back to life with water and sunlight, before they had their moment to shine on the front table, greeting the people we didn't know who might've wanted to buy the house ('We knew it was the house for us because of the slightly dead carnations in the front room').
I remember the lack of fly screens, in this place where blowflys and their disgusting magnetic buzzing tendencies didn't seem to exist. A lack of fly screens made it possible to thrust open the double windows and be faced with nothing between you and the air outside. As a result, people would tumble their bedding out of the windows in the morning, leaving it to air. Even when the air was so cold that you wondered whether it would turn the bedding to icy sheets of cardboard, deft hands would hurl the blankets from the terrace windows for the duration of the morning.
I remember how angry she was at the lack of street signs, at the winding roads in the place that there seemed to be a constant mist of rain from June until September. The anger at the warren of turns and blind corners, the slippery roads and the dull yellow headlights, turned into joy, when spring finally tickled our chins with warm fingers and the blossom tree at the bottom of the driveway burst into a calm array of pink and white.
I remember the smell of disinfectant that I came to associate with moving house, as we scrubbed out cupboards, wiped away the dust on skirting boards and powerpoints, the type of cleaning nobody really bothers with unless it's thought someone will examine these spaces with an attention to detail. There was a makeshift wall made from cupboards and boxes, which gave me a new appreciation for doorknobs, even if they didn't have locks. She would buy the discounted flowers from the supermarket, the wilted and sad ones, then nurse them back to life with water and sunlight, before they had their moment to shine on the front table, greeting the people we didn't know who might've wanted to buy the house ('We knew it was the house for us because of the slightly dead carnations in the front room').
I remember the lack of fly screens, in this place where blowflys and their disgusting magnetic buzzing tendencies didn't seem to exist. A lack of fly screens made it possible to thrust open the double windows and be faced with nothing between you and the air outside. As a result, people would tumble their bedding out of the windows in the morning, leaving it to air. Even when the air was so cold that you wondered whether it would turn the bedding to icy sheets of cardboard, deft hands would hurl the blankets from the terrace windows for the duration of the morning.
Friday, March 12, 2010
That smells like Tupperware
She spent most of her time waiting, killing time. While she waited she would watch the particles of dust dance in the sunlight. Thinking about doing that was boring, and untrue. Because the light didn't play tricks like that, didn't shimmer with dust fibres, didn't swap and flitter like a playful hummingbird (do hummingbirds exist in Australia?) In reality the light hovered outside the window, hid behind the bus stop, never reaching the corners of the space she occupied.
If she wasn't waiting, killing time, she was running, trying to revive the time that was beaten under her as she ran. It didn't seem fair, these two extremes. Lateness did not bode gracefully with her, not at all. Though clumsy in everyday existence, lateness was a sure shortcut to utter uncoordination, a formula for being flustered and red-faced.
When she rushed, time raced. When she waited (usually on a dirty bench, in the searing sun) time stomped slowly around her, scuffing its feet and dragging its weight.
She hated stepping onto the metal teeth of the escalator, always envisaging the fall that could take place (had taken place). While she stood to the left, she had watched a dust ball accumulate. It blew in the warm air that rushed from the platforms. It was dust, hair, fluff, forgotten bits and pieces. It grew like tumbleweed. She was repulsed, but intrigued, letting the metaphor spin forth in her mind. Sort of a sick fascination one develops at things that are unpleasant or horrific.
If she wasn't waiting, killing time, she was running, trying to revive the time that was beaten under her as she ran. It didn't seem fair, these two extremes. Lateness did not bode gracefully with her, not at all. Though clumsy in everyday existence, lateness was a sure shortcut to utter uncoordination, a formula for being flustered and red-faced.
When she rushed, time raced. When she waited (usually on a dirty bench, in the searing sun) time stomped slowly around her, scuffing its feet and dragging its weight.
She hated stepping onto the metal teeth of the escalator, always envisaging the fall that could take place (had taken place). While she stood to the left, she had watched a dust ball accumulate. It blew in the warm air that rushed from the platforms. It was dust, hair, fluff, forgotten bits and pieces. It grew like tumbleweed. She was repulsed, but intrigued, letting the metaphor spin forth in her mind. Sort of a sick fascination one develops at things that are unpleasant or horrific.
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