Out of the frying pan and into the weekend.
I have always thought that the working week has been organised by somebody who doesn’t read the label; Fragile, This way up!
So, after a reasonably long working week, we get two days off to celebrate, relax, commiserate and fret.
Weekends are the product of the need to work and the need to show thanks and obedience to God and our other masters. We give thanks for not having been dragged off for lunch by a Dire Wolf or not having succumbed to a deadly dose of Black Death. Nose, arms, ears, feet, toes and our pleasure bits are still in order so let’s make hay. The problem is that the hay is just as much an illusion as the expanse of weekend that lies before us. Two bloody days! Forty-eight hours! Such a tiny amount of time to rebalance our bodies and minds.
But the fact that I am not in charge of an unruly tribe of early teens (unruly in the terms of a viking raiding party) means that I am not as incapacitated as I would have been. Kids now call me Mike. They thank me for lessons. They say nice words to my face. I may have died and entered some surreal world of educational derangement but it’s alright by me and long may it last.
Little bastard-devil on my shoulder is now up on tip-toes and whispering in my ear.
Like dandruff, I have metaphorically dusted him off.