Good Afternoon...
Sundays cause me a great deal of concern.
4pm on a Sunday Afternoon is, without doubt, the single most depressing time period in any given week. A state of uncertain limbo descends upon the household at this time.
Technically, it is still the weekend, and so we feel a sense of guilt if we do not force ourselves into making steps towards somehow enjoying ourselves. Every second between Friday afternoon and Monday Morning is unfathomably precious, obviously.
And yet, we know we can't do anything genuinely exciting or pleasurable; like getting blind drunk and crashing a transvestite party, or sticking our passports, wellies and large amount of something hallucinagenic in a bag and setting out on a voyage of discovery; because we have no choice but to hop back on the merry-go-round (which I envisage as a grey, broken one on an industrial estate in Slough) and go back to being the horrendously middle-class, sensible individuals our tragically mundane day-jobs demand us to be.
Sundays challenge the very fabric of my mental health. Stitch by tiny stitch, Sunday Afternoon starts to unravel my sanity, as the desperately miserable realisation dawns on me that tomorrow I will become, yet again an ordinary, boring person leaving my detached home on its well-presented estate at the same time as every middle-aged accountant with 2.4 children and a silver Mondeo across the entire country.
I may have spent my weekend riding Elephants in Thailand, I could have performed at the O2 Arena, discovered a cure for cancer AND found a tenner in my coat pocket, but none of that matters because come Monday Morning I am the disembodied robot-voice helping countless overweight women find their nearest Diet class, and absolutely nothing more.
I'll write again tomorrow, you caught me at a bad time.
Girl.x
Nb: Incidentally, this weekend I drank too much Becks, watched Britain's Got Talent and treated myself to a BigMac.
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