Monday, 11 April 2011

...And then I imerse myself into another bland Monday.

So here we are. Monday evening. Currently sat at the kitchen table poised with gin in hand. For the record I have mixed this gin (it goes by the name of Gordon) with small amount of tonic, ice and thrown a lemon slice in for good measure but for the record, it’s also pretty good straight. Through the eyeball.

I joke. I haven’t reached these desperate measures yet. The day I do, you may cart me off in a straight jacket and hold me in a padded cell. And no doubt, it will happen on Monday. Just to make a Monday exciting.

Nothing out of the ordinary has happened today. Nothing especially bad has happened today. Nothing to completely ruin my life. Nothing to make me say “Well did you know what happened to me today?”, or to look back at my life and remember that exceptional day that was April 1th 2011. It was just mundane-ness. All day.
I went running (again). I didn’t fall over, scrape up my knee or twist my ankle. I did sweat the ganges though. However, this is not unusual.
The only delay this morning was deciding which pair of shoes should accompany a standard outfit. No different from every other morning. Nothing extraordinary.
My car started without fault this morning ( thanks, Brian – I would have loved some drama this morning) I fed him Brian juice because I was early for work ... on a Monday? My card was accepted without any problems by the chip’n’pin and I pulled away without stalling. I found a parking space in a crowded car park. And remembered my security pass.
I knew all the answers to all the questions I was asked today, and I even helped Miss Hendo with her workload.
All of this is standard Monday stuff.
I would have like to been driven to work in horse and carriage, wearing one of those fancy dresses and ridiculous sized hats with a colourful plume. I would like to have been hijacked by a masked highwayman and whisked away for ransom. I would like to have remained unharmed and to have unknowingly fallen head over hills in love with my masked captor.
Sadly this was not to be.
I would like to have a huge bunch of flowers delivered to my desk and to have been embarrassingly serenaded by a barber shop quartet. Just to add some cheese to my life.

I would have quite liked an anonymous email to arrive in my inbox giving me instructions to get myself to the Eurostar platform at Waterloo station by 5 o’clock. Upon arrival I would find out that I had been headhunted by MI5 and was now being sent off to save a British diplomat and to find the scoundrel framing them for a dirty crime.
My inbox remained empty.
I would like to have cut a certain Miss Hepburn from a particular movie revolving around food consumption in a jewellery shop and played the role myself. Word for word. Problem is, I don’t like cats and I don’t smoke. Nor do I have the perfect LBD, or her wonderful clipped tones. I don’t live in New York or meet criminals in prison.
I will never work for MI5, because my numerical skills are ... blank. (I skipped that gene) And due to the legislation regarding kidnap and the abandonment of dowry’s and ‘selling’ off one’s daughters to an eligible bachelor, neither shall I ride off on horseback with a masked gentleman.
The sad thing about having an overactive imagination fuelled by caffeine is that often you write yourself into beautiful period dramas with ruggedly handsome men, or become a female Bond and save the British government in a pair of Christian Louboutin’s. When your normal life is bland, there is nothing to stop this internal film producing company from going into overdrive.
You write the script.
Film the shots.
And applaud your own efforts and award at the Oscars. Except I have this amazing ability to avoid the dramatic sobs in the “I want to thank Frank, and my Mum and my Dad, the dog who lived next door who was my only friend as a child” speech.

Then you realise, its Monday. Again.
And Monday’s are always this bland. So you always run away into Imagi-World (the best theme park ever) And every Monday you make the same realisation.
“Today is Monday. I am five days from the weekend. And I shouldn’t drink anymore coffee.”

I found out this weekend, that after excessive drinking on Friday night I no longer possess the amazing bounce-back reflex . The incredible reflex reaction to hangovers when you don’t feel a thing the following morning, your face is free from smudged make-up and you are doe-eyed and wide awake.
Not only do I no longer have this. But now that slightly-not-quite-right-because-I-definitely-drank-a-lot-of-alcohol feeling lasts two whole days. What is this?