Friday feeling


A moment’s rumination – just a moment, mind, don’t expect anything big – leads me to conclude that Fridays are by far the most variable nights of my week. Every other day has a bit of a theme. Like sorting my washing or working until 1am. But Fridays? Whoo, Fridays rub the lamp of chaos and throw some shapes with the emerging genie.

My diary confirms it. A nosegay plucked randomly from summer’s hedgerow: Bristol, pub, parents, Dublin, theatre, Lincoln, dinner, mysterious blank. I suspect the mysterious blank involved me sneaking home into the arms of the sofa. Thing is, even though I usually am doing something, I feel guilty and bold for deciding to do sod-all on a Friday. Why? No one else cares. No one awards marks for interestingness and plots them on a graph for avid public perusal. Yet still I cloudily imagine that somewhere someone notices and thinks I’m a boring bugger.

But yesterday morning, to the accompanying fizz of a restorative can of Pepsi (yes, perhaps Thursday night had been rather busy), I stood firm, took my swimming togs into work and, after many hours of foreseen hideousness, lowered my hunched back into Balham pool and swam back to contentment. How blissfully naughty! How selfish and crazy! I’m not boozing, I’m exercising!

Begone GuiltMonster, and fetch me some Ovaltine.


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