ANOTHER Monday has arrived.
They are coming in at regular intervals these days. As soon as my head hits the pillow on Sunday evening, I know that Monday morning is going to be next (if I sleep through the nocturnal hours).
I had a moderately decent sleep last night that was only vaguely punctuated by a trip to the loo and I letting the cat out. I could still feel the skirmishes that had taken place between my antibodies and the Armada of toilet pass bugs. It was touch and go halfway at around four this morning, after the moggy had asked politely and been ushered in the wet welcome of a Monday’s pre-dawn event.
Guess what we are?
I felt that the little invaders had managed a beachhead and were setting themselves towards taking me down before the sun came up. Being a supply teacher means that I can take days off with illness, but I won’t be paid for them. I try to teach with the Black Death as my backdrop and a stiff upper lip that only quivers in the witching hours when my body shakes from the bacterial battering it frequently has to take.
Anyway, when the time arrived with the accompaniment of two musical iPhones, we both awoke.
“Bloody hell,” I moaned.
“Winters’ mornings,” my wife replied.
“Bloody hate them,” I concluded.
In a moment of absolute selflessness, I offered to put the kettle on. It meant venturing out into the darkly cold of the world beyond duvets and navigating down the stairs that will one day attempt their own usurpation. On this morning, I walked as if I was learning that form of self-mobilisation for the first time. I grabbed the kettle, pulled off the lid and then filled it with cold water. The gas ring did not hesitate of refuse, so the stage was set.
Lucy, our cat, would be waiting outside, ready to come in and be fed. Feeding Lucy involves a certain degree of coaxing. She likes certain wet-foods, but only if they have a royal stamp. She has a very discerning palette that changes from week to week. One thing that doesn’t change is her adoration of treats called Dreamies which appear to be the equivalent of feline Class A drugs. So, I have taken to delivering meals that include a base of wet-food (with a royal stamp of approval) and topped with Dreamies (recommended by Pablo Escobar). This morning I left her outside in obvious anticipation as I had work to do.
Sunday was a big day for blogging.
I had posted on Saturday, a little post that I thought was sufficiently sufficient. Views were in short supply. That’s the thing with blogging, you think you have produced something that nobody would wish to miss, but then everybody chooses to miss it. For a man recovering from burnout that was brought on, in no little way by his low self-esteem, blogging is an unusual route to recovery. Why did I choose to write about a subject that nobody cares to think about? Why did I choose to write about me?
Point taken, however writers should always write about what they know and I think that I now know a decent bit about me. That to one side, I should have written about making cakes, decorating my home, going for walks, being extremely materialistic and positive as a result. These, Professor Higgins, sell views. As a great philosopher of our time once said, “If you want to send a message, use Western Union (Post Office for Brits).”
I had recently reached the point when I thought that pressing was pointless. Pressing, publishing my innards on a close to daily basis, was getting me nowhere and at the speed of light. But yesterday had been a good day for views and visits. Yesterday had been a very good day and, as a result, my belief had been buoyed. I turned the computer on in anticipation and it delivered the stats I was hoping for. A little song and a jig later, I was letting the cat in and making the tea. I climbed the stairs accompanied by Simple Minds, ‘I Promised You a Miracle’ humming out of my happiness.
BLOG IS GREAT!