It's Friday. And as is customary at the end of the working week, I sprang from the nuptial bed with a song in my heart and a smile on my chops. Also, as is Friday's wont, I was cream-crackered after a long week at the coal face of nebulous office brouhaha.
It just goes to show that mood is subjective and a fickle mistress to boot. Had today been a Tuesday, I'd have been massively disheartened by the leaden feel in my limbs and brain as the alarm rang out. So one cannot ascribe mood to the objective material conditions one is in. No, it's the perception of those conditions that counts. All I need to do then is harness the Friday ambiance and shoehorn it into the rest of the week.
When my sisters and I were children, we subsisted almost exclusively on boiled potatoes. This is par for the course for those of us lucky enough to have been blessed with Irish lineage. But like youth, boiled spuds are wasted on the young. We absolutely loathed them. One day I occurred to me as I chased another tattie around my plate, hoping an eagle might swoop down and finish it for me, that chips were basically anorexic boiled potatoes with tans. We of course adored chips. I suggested to the sibs that we recreate the chip experience by pouring vinegar all over the offending potatoes. Moments later, fat chips were born.
We couldn't get enough spuds thereafter. The only downside to this arrangement was that my urine had to be buried in the garden because it was corroding the lead pipes in our Victorian plumbing. Still, it was worth it. I eventually extended this idea to putting Andrews liver salts in our still orange squash. It tastes delicious, but makes you catastrophically bilious, so we had to knock it on the head.
How, then, to convince the old brain that Monday is just like Friday? Hmm...I could try and recreate the routine of Friday for it. This introduces problems: of a Friday I normally scoot home and start eating and drinking like a condemned man until fatigue overwhelms me and I pass out on the faux-Persian rug in the front room. Good form dictates that I remain motionless in this prone position until dawn and then climb into bed for a hour or so. Doing that on a Monday would spell disaster for my capacity for paid work. No, that won't do. Perhaps I'll join the Quakers. They seem a contented bunch - not hysterical, like your evangelical Christian - but happy with their meagre lot.
Today's cryptic bingo number: Game GIs confused by little Edward reversing (7,3)
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