As nondescript as it is, Monday still has one shining advantage. It is better than Sunday. If Sunday is the last choked breath of the hanging corpse, Monday is the evacuation of the bowels just after the fucking neck snaps.
It’s a release, if you like. I suppose I could have thought of a better release than a hanging. But this isn’t Penny Crayon. You can’t draw your way out of Monday.
Unless you actually are Penny Crayon.
I spent half of the day writing about Sunday. I still can’t get over that one. It was like delving into a pie mad of rotten crust and finding dog-shit in the middle. And a nugget of gristle inside that. It’s fair to say; Monday was better.
There’s still not much to tell. The working part of it remained bearable. I gracefully executed some duties, then turned into the wind to scale the bracing winds up Tesco Mountain.
The place was largely deserted. Enough room to swing a basket. Doing that would have resulted in breakages, so I didn’t do that. Instead I inspected the reduced counter with the free hand stroking a chin and nodding for no real reason, scanning bread rolls. Several cheery yellow stickers denoted knock-down prices, knocked down and and then knocked into a cocked hat and then cut down to size, followed by a reduction of thirty pence. Probably, I don’t work for fucking Tesco.
The stats made for good reading:
Bread Rolls! 20p.
Donuts! 60p! I think!
Like some panic buying cunt, I loaded up, and was off into the night cackling like Jack the Ripper, my cloak one with the dying light. Cheers.