Monday is at it again. It is the noisy neighbour to Sunday and it stays up late making lots of worrying sounds right into the morning.
Last night was one of those nights with the thoughts of the coming week pounding at the inside of my half-sleep. Half-sleep is being generous; if at any point one was able to nod off on the way to a rather messy, and well attended, execution then last night’s half and sleep would have been apt. Oh, the execution was your own.
Mondays, bloody Mondays. There was some machine running throughout the dark hours and I kept getting up to see what it was. I could smell something similar to toast, so I checked the house. The machine started again, so I checked the central heating. The toast smell crept into our bedroom, so I checked the kitchen. The forever hum of the machine continued as my wife slept through it.
Many of you will probably know what it is like to desperately wish for sleep yet to be denied it by the rattle of one’s anxieties. Fear of Monday probably has a name; as fear of death or public talking also own their own terms. I can’t be bothered to find out. Find out yourself if you are so bothered.
And that is what Monday does to you. It creeps up in the dead hours of the night, nudges you awake, enters your mind, plays with your dread of entertaining and educating the next generation, and smells like toast.