This Tuesday I’ve been having, feels a lot like Monday. In fact, I was going to pop on here and grumble about how wearisome Mondays are to me. Then I realised my Monday has spilled over into Tuesday.
Which sucks, big, hairy balls.
I have done many things today. I should feel good about this. I don’t. Instead I feel a seething resentment that the day got swallowed up with things like:
Dropping a picture frame on the floor and spending half an hour locating small shards of glass all over the house, miles away from where I dropped the bloody picture.
Wondering, as I tidied the death trap that is otherwise known as Oscar’s bedroom, why there is a strange hamsterish smell in there, no matter what I do? I would think it was Oscar himself, except that I have given him a jolly thorough sniff, and he doesn’t smell like a hamster at all.
Is there a rogue hamster in the house?
It might explain why Derek spends so much time hanging out on Oscar’s window sill.
Sorting out my knitting wool stash and moving it into a basket, rather than in paper bags, spilling out all over the lounge. I have not picked up my knitting needles for weeks, and I really miss knitting. Unfortunately, life has been such that on the few occasions I have had the time to sit down, I have fallen asleep face first on the table.
Figuring out which light bulbs I need to buy from Homebase to stop the kitchen plunging into Stygian darkness. I hate buying lightbulbs. I hate putting lightbulbs in, but with four minor wall lights out, one under the kitchen counter light out, and one main pendant light out, it is too dark even for my moleish ways.
Planning tomorrow’s activities. Tomorrow will be a very busy day, and I know that I will mess things up spectacularly if I don’t give myself a stern talking to and write a list now. I bloody hate planning ahead.
All the other things are even duller than the ones I’ve mentioned. Too dull to share. Too dull to think about. Excruciatingly dull to do.
Luckily, the one redeeming feature of this extra Monday is that, as everyone else in this part of the world is happily having a Tuesday, it is pub quiz night, and I actually have time to go to the quiz. It matters not that my brain is fried, nor that I will have to ice a cake when I get home. It matters not that I am likely to fall asleep under the table, and cannot even remember my name, let alone the capital of Botswana.
It matters that because this bit of the day is a Tuesday, I can go and have a glass of wine with my friends and frivolously waste some of my precious time being very silly indeed and not doing anything constructive at all.