Friday; just another day closer to Monday

I do get tired of those lift conversations that start with, ‘well at least it’s Friday!’ ‘What have you got planned for the weekend?’ First of all, it’s the day when most people go mental, cram themselves in a pub and get completely stocious. They wake up on Saturday feeling crapulent then muddle through to Sunday, the day of rest. Then spend Sunday evening dreading going back to work on Monday.

Secondly, I am under no illusion that Friday is nothing more than a trick. It’s there to give us something to aim for. We spend the week wishing our lives away for what? A couple of days of doing chores around the house. Washing. Cleaning. Mowing the lawn?

I for one like the weekend for one reason. I can get away from everyone. Call me misanthropic but there is nothing better than shutting the world out and getting down to some serious lounging around and recharging the batteries.

And maybe I can get down to some writing that I want to do. Not what I’m told by clients to do.

Reach out and throttle someone

Sitting in the office yesterday, minding my own business. I heard someone say that they would reach out to the client. Now, I had heard this on some American TV series and thought nothing of it. Another Americanism that just made my scrotum retract into my body. I’m all for the evolution of language. Welcome it with open arms and a big wet slobbery kiss. But coming from the mouth of an English person, it just seemed wrong. An affectation. Like white men pretending to be black. Englishmen with American accents. Dick Van Dyke trying to do an English accent and sounding like an Australian with a speech impediment.

Maybe I will warm to this new addition to the English language but if I’m honest I would rather batter them severely about the chest and neck if they said it to me at the moment. Maybe I am getting old and reluctant to change. Hard to imagine, I’m such a friendly soul.

 

Where do I start?

So much to say, millions of words to use and no clue where to begin. First of all, I’m not well. Somehow I’ve contracted the lurghi. It could be from anywhere. The air-conditioned office with coughing and spluttering idiots who would rather come in to work rather than have a sick day, or that miserable crawling metal projectile they call the tube. Either way I am riddled with it.

I was assured that if I drank warm lemon water with honey and ginger I would be excluded from the hacking, snot filled masses but no, here I am, another wheezing, despicable germ monster spewing my infectious children into the air.