Sunday Night, Monday Morning
Time was in my twenties I got into the habit of squeezing the last drop out of the weekend by spending Sunday nights in the boozer. A proper old-fashioned London pub mind you: first the Brownswood Park Tavern, one of those crossroad corner-straddling pubs and then latterly The Clarendon with a little Magpie & Stump and Mulligan’s thrown for the sake of a change being as good as rest.
If this approach (albeit in the days when they called time at 10.30 pm) meant a slow start the following morning it barely mattered, my employment being a succession of mundane jobs you’d really rather not think about until you absolutely had to.
These days, and I find it no measure of my progress in civility or refinement to admit this, it has to be early to bed with a camomile tea (which is filthy stuff) in order to face the Marathon that is the Makemeadiva Monday. The day of the week that I wish out of the way because it so long, so demanding and, frankly, so Mondayish. If I am your colleague, tutor, mother or friend on a Monday don’t take it personally, it’s not you, it just the extended hours at the face that I resent. I don’t like the preparation for the endurance test that tucks me in bed by ten p.m. drinking a cup of what smells like someone’s wee. I’m sorry, but I still wish I was parked on a bar stool somewhere with the hard stuff and pool cue: the winner stays on.