Friday to Hell

I was once in a job so foul, that I used to dread Fridays, because Friday was too close to Monday, and I spent all day dreading the dawning of the new week. Saturday was even worse. And by Sunday, I was climbing the walls. That established a pattern that still makes me uncomfortable. Also, Saturday is the last day of the week I can still receive mail, and government departments and doctors and so on usually contrive for their mail to rattle its way down onto my doormat, just as I’m trying to settle down for a nice lie in. Monday, on the other hand is quiet. Most people in government departments are running round like blue-arsed flies deciding who they can post nasty news to so that it arrives on Saturday — or better still, Christmas eve. The other bad thing about Mondays is that nothing opens in this strange little village I live in, so I can’t chill and get breakfast at the cafe next door, or the one across the road, or go for a shop and a chat at the butcher’s — where the only thing I actually buy these days is a jar of piccalilli. I’ve got a cupboard full of them. It’s like I’m stockpiling for a cheese eaters’ convention. I need a holiday. I need a holiday away so that I can have a week without Fridays and Mondays. Maybe a long weekend. As you were; I’d probably just dread coming home. What’s happened? I’ve retired. I thought this crap ended when you retired. It doesn’t. It just gets more crafty and sneaky up and stabby in the backie.


About Zoe Nightingale

I am a writer of short stories, novels, poetry and non fiction.
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