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Non-Fiction
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| Monday Morning Blues | |
| By laurenmeyer | ||||
| 29 November 2006 | ||||
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You know what mondays are like. This is just an insight to one particularly terrible start to a week! An almost 'Bridget Jones Diary' for mondays.... It’s Monday. By far the worst day of the week… and I despise it. Just opening my eyes this morning is a mission in itself. My waking thoughts are not of the night before or the weekend that has just passed – but purely filled with anxious cries to whatever greater power there is to turn back the clock and give me another four hours sleep. And please, PLEASE let it not be Monday… But it is, and I have to force myself to sit up and detangle myself from my duvet cover which, during the night, has decided to entwine me like a python in its clasp and it does not want to let me go. I end up falling out of my bed – a good 99% of my body ends up on the floor while one foot remains securely tied between my duvet cover and this ridiculous throw thing that I have over my bed (my pathetic attempts at making my room look like something ‘designer-esque’ with an almost ‘Turkish boudoir feel’ - which has ended up looking more and more like a drag queen’s whore house than a bedroom). So now not only VERY early on a Monday morning, but I have a slight bump on my head and mild concussion. 6:05am I drag myself up off the floor and stagger to the bathroom. The shower is calling my name and I respond willingly. It is a glorious shower – the water is warm and it wakes me up…to the realisation that I have forgotten to bring my towel from my room into the bathroom with me. I don’t know if my housemates are awake yet – there is no way I can run through to my room, so there is nothing left for me to do than to dry myself off with my pyjamas and make a dash through to my bedroom. I HATE MONDAYS! 6:20am A quick glance at the clock tells me that I am running a bit late. I did not iron my work shirts last night and I have absolutely no time to do it now. I grab the one and only shirt that I own that is one of those ‘no-need-to-iron-it!’ types and congratulate myself on actually doing my laundry – if not the ironing – yesterday. I drag my clothes on, scrimmage through my cupboard to find my belt and end up unpacking my entire sock drawer to find a matching pair of socks. I overdo the perfume this morning again and manage successfully to squirt some of it in my eye. I’m still a bit a bit bleary eyed from not getting enough sleep and I haven’t noticed that the nozzle of perfume bottle (which in my defence is black and quite difficult to see in the morning) was facing me. So back to the bathroom (with a towel this time!!) to wash all this rubbish out of my eye and off my face and as I am standing there I suddenly realise how long its been since I last plucked my eyebrows. 6:30am I’m standing in the bathroom frantically plucking away at my eyebrows. I look like a Brooke Shields impersonator. I don’t have time to do a fabulous job, so I slap on some make up in the hopes that it will cover all the ‘freshly plucked’ red splodgy bits and dash out of the bathroom, wolf down some breakfast on my way, grab my handbag and dash out the door. The cold wind hits me like a baseball bat and I have to spend a good two minutes rummaging in my overstuffed handbag for my keys so that I can get back in the house to grab a jacket. 6:45am I power-walk my way up the road. I miss the bus, of course. I would run for it, but there is something infinitely ungraceful about a girl with a big bum scrambling for the bus. I also don’t think I will make it in time. I’m halfway between bus stops as it comes roaring past me and I know that with my non-existent athletic skills I’ll never make it in time and then I will just look like a big jello-blob rolling over the pavement, not unlike a jellyfish getting thrown up on shore in a freak wave. 6:49am I get to the bus stop. I have a choice. I can wait ten minutes or so in the hope that there is another bus on its way or I can walk to the Underground station – a ten/fifteen minute walk. I figure that I am late enough as it is and that, considering how badly in need of exercise I am that I should take the walk and step it up a notch. If I walk quickly, I can make it to the Underground station by 7am. I put my head down, readjust my handbag on my shoulder and push myself forward. And true enough, as I am halfway to the next bus stop, another bus passes me by. Dammit!!!!! 7:02am At last – I make it to the station. The pigeons on my walk from home have been unforgiving. They have been all over the road pecking away at things and deliberately (I think anyway) aiming for my head while swooping down kamikaze-style to the pavement to get a bit of left over food thrown on the road. There is something a bit sadomasochistic about a pigeon eating discarded chicken and I find it vaguely amusing. 7:03am The final obstacle…the London Underground… I know that if I can get through it with some level of sanity, I will be able to get through this, the most horrid of days! The tube on a Monday morning is probably the one place in the world you DON’T want to be, but I soldier forward, grab my free copy of the Metro and trudge up the stairs – only to be beaten up by an eighty year old man with a walking stick. I mosey my way down the platform – all the way to the back – in the hopes of getting seat. 7:05am The train arrives. My station is directly on the split, so I am spoilt for choice when about two seconds after the first train arrives, another arrives on the opposite platform! ‘Could my luck be changing?’ I wonder to myself. I hop on the first train that arrives – and yes, I even get a seat (!) ‘My luck IS changing’ I think to myself as I settle down. And just as I start settling down, Murphy’s Law kicks into gear and the other train moves off first, delaying our departure. 7:15am I’m stuck in a tunnel in the Underground. Perfect. I love Mondays… No point in panicking now really, I should just scrape into work fractionally later than usual (not serious), and I certainly can’t phone anyone from down here to tell them that I may be late. At least I have a seat I suppose. I take this time to look around me at my fellow passengers. Everyone, with the exception of one person, has their nose in either a book or a newspaper of some sort. Unfortunately, the one person whose nose isn’t in some form of reading material is picking at it like a gold digger scratching for nuggets. I’m not quite sure what it is about the Underground, but people suddenly think that they are absolutely invisible and they can do things that ordinarily should be done in the privacy of their own homes. He finishes his scraping around and sits back to listen to some music, his cap pulled low over his eyes, head bobbing back and forth and foot tapping to the music on his iPod. I steal another glance over my newspaper. Next to him sits a business man in a suit. I don’t know who dressed the man, but his shirt looks as if it should belong on a table in a cheap Italian restaurant – dark blue gingham check with a bright red tie. The suits nice though, but the shirt is enough to put anyone into a hypnotic state. He is reading the Financial Times and looks slightly perturbed by the distorted music coming from gold diggers iPod. A moment later, he gives a sigh, rumples up his newspaper and moves to another seat, glances of fire aimed at his fellow passenger. Obviously the guy doesn’t like hip-hop. 7:22am The train lurches forward and try to concentrate on my Metro. It’s not working! The news is the same as any other day – boring, boring, boring! Tony Blair and George Bush, the NHS and bird flu rubbish (maybe it could get some of those bloody pigeons off the street!) I turn to the cartoons and horoscopes page for a little giggle and glimpse into the future and find to my delight that things should be lightening up for me. In theory that is, these horoscopes are ALWAYS wrong… 7:28am At last! I leave the confines of the central line with a spring in my step. The gap between the train and the platform ensures that I literally have to launch myself out of the train and straight into a very miserable-looking young man who gives me one of the dirtiest looks I’ve ever seen. I mumble my apologies and join the rest of the animals shoving their way towards the exits. 7:30am I emerge miraculously unscathed from the depths of the underground to another muggy London day. Mondays are always muggy days. And to round off my delightful trip into work I almost get knocked over by a blind cyclist who has decided that it is better to keep his head down and motor through red traffic lights (it must be something to do with the wind resistance or something) instead of keeping his eyes up to see when to stop. Fortunately for him he is wearing those horrid fluorescent jackets that you can see from space, and three taxi cabs and a bus manage to jam on breaks to avoid squishing him. As I see it, if you can survive the trip into work on a Monday, surely the day can only get better… 7:35am I collapse in a heap at the doorway to my office. My hair has gone curly due to the muggy weather, my hands are covered in newspaper print, my eyeliner has streamed all over my face from the variation in temperature – the warmth of the tube to the coldness outside, I have smudges on my face from the newsprint, I am windswept, dishevelled, out of breath and slightly shaken from my near death experience. It’s good to get to work!
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