Monday
I’m certainly not going to say that some days are actually longer than others. But if they are, the first day at work of the year has to be a fair contender as the longest. Today couldn’t have dragged more if someone had piped the hits of Snow Patrol directly into my skull.
The Mother of all Mondays. And not even technically a Monday. Never has a day lived up to its billing so emphatically. London looked post-apocalyptic this morning. Swirling rain. Gale force winds. People staggering to and fro. All desperately coming to terms with the fact that a long bout of alcoholic excess - punctuated only by regular and shorter periods of utter binge-drinking - was finally over.
I got to work. Where were the mince pies? Where was the mulled wine? The most exciting thing I unwrapped all day was my lunch. I wanted reindeer jumpers and Cliff Richard. All I got was a complaint about my Secret Santa. And I had to work beyond mid-afternoon.
My walk to the bus-stop was a trail of ex-Xmas trees. Each one previously a fifty pound focal-point of festive fun, newly reinvented as irrigation for dog piss. People looked miserable. I sat across from a couple on the number 19. They didn’t share a word. I found it difficult to work out which of them was actually clinically depressed. The girl seemed more likely. A vague sign of a nervous tick, and her complexion gave the impression that a slew of Valium was only a repeat prescription away. He was much harder to read. What with his sobbing and wringing of hands.
The shame is, this isn’t a one-day hangover. London will be this way for the month. It’s here for keeps. I will do my bit to lift the general mood. Definitely starting tomorrow.
