As
I was applying my going-out face, kneeling on a cushion, to save my
knees, much like a gardener does when planting or weeding, in front
of a full-length mirror, my sensitive ears, which some might say are
bat-like, heard a truck pull up that sounded suspiciously like a
Wednesday delivery.
It
was too. But today is Friday! I thought. And then uttered thanks (to
the mirror) that I'd done all my thinking already that morning, of
the list-making kind, because these would now be disturbed, until I
either went out or the truck and what was left of its contents
travelled on.
The
former transpired. Though not because of the truck but because I was
ready. I even walked past the humming, clumsy-looking vehicle, on my
way to the shops, without a grumble though not without a sidelong,
evil-eyed glance.
These
events are not supposed to happen on Fridays.
No,
the day is more noted for its speed, Fridays seem extraordinarily
keen to depart once they've arrived, and, for me, usually herald
(annoyingly too) a flurry of emails, from all those I hoped to hear
from earlier in the week, or hadn't heard from in a while; and
because I only check my account mid-afternoon I then either spend my
time replying or deferring those replies, and therefore further
shorten the time I have and what I thought was possible to achieve.
Is
this a whine, like that of a bluebottle? Or more that of a woman with
a horsey laugh, neighing and braying her complaints to all and
sundry, almost proud of having them to tell and spread, repeat a
number of times in a number of different ways? I have people that
want to know me! Want to connect with me. Over email. I'm not sure
that says a lot, actually. She sounds like rather a sad case.
No,
it's not like that. I'm not like that, really. It's just Sod's Law.
That what it is; that's what Fridays are.
Fridays
are the same numbered bus turning up in threes e.g. nothing, nothing,
wrong number, single decker, a hopper, than one, two, three the same,
on the same route: all of them in service and stopping, and mostly
empty.
What
more do you want? Jackpot! Yes, BUT...the timing's always a little
off. When you feel as if time, all time, is about to run out. On
you. On the world.
I
should expect it, surely, if this is typical Friday territory? Yes,
but somehow I never do, and so somehow I always feel a trifle
hounded.
Why?
Because I want to shove it all away. No different than someone
tidying their desk from a week's work. Or clearing their In-box,
ruthlessly. Delete, delete, move to, move to, delete, delete, delete.
Junk, junk, block, block, block.
But
you can't treat people like that! I treat everything like that.
Done. Done. Done. About to be done. Will do. The more minor tasks I
can tick, the more I can concentrate on what I want to concentrate
on, instead of those left taking up brain-space, knowing they're
still to do. Other days, fine, but Fridays are different. And are
when I also think my bristling to nobody but myself, well, now to you
too, is justified since Fridays are in such a hurry to be over.
Vamoose. I'm outta here. See you later alligator! Its tail already
disappearing round the bend.
The
bend of what? I don't know, a building?, on its way to the station or
pub. Oh sorry, bar, because that sounds way more refined, to a
Londoner, where they might even have, though it's unlikely,
plinky-plonky music, and bar persons properly, more elegantly
attired, who can make cocktails and know how to show off while doing
so.
I'm
getting carried away aren't I? Next, I'll be thinking of pools and
indoor sun-loungers round the pool-side, and be reminded of holidays
in Wales.
Wales?
Yes. Wales. Where they served fruity non-alcoholic cocktails in tall
glasses with striped straws and colourful umbrellas. I hadn't yet
reached double digits, so how grown-up (and privileged) did I feel!
It's easier to feel that way when you're under age; you appreciate
that scene less, or take a dislike to it, once adulthood's here to
stay, here for good.
Picture credit: The Bar El Gaucho, Seattle Bar, Nina Mikhailenko (source: Google images)
All posts published this year were penned during the last.
