Friday is a farce.
I travel in at the usual time, on the lumbering bus, but the morning’s mostly spent making tea or blowing my nose, and then it’s an early lunch. I put my umbrella over my shoulder and march down like a matchstick man to the nearest boozer. It’s all brown panels and busty barmaids inside, and a strange air flows in the rooms, an air of relief and happiness because it’s Friday, and yet below, lurking like a creature from the deep, I sense a foreboding feeling of inevitability that the weekend won’t last forever.
Next week we’ll be doing this sad little dance again, again and again in fact, until we die. Still, the looming white breasts of the barmaids (always in the same tired dresses) pour forth the frothy golden beer and it’s easy to forget about anything past today.
Back at my desk, I arrange the leaves on my plate carefully, and adorn here and there with cherry tomatoes, those little marvels of bursting red flavour.
The rest of the afternoon is a write-off and then we’re back down into the stinking dungeon that transports us to-and-fro off into our warm little living rooms, or like me, back into another den with the swirling brown panels and huge white breasts.
Tomorrow is Saturday, and I’ll bury my face into my soft white pillows.
thewordgun 