You know those things called Mondays? Who likes them, anyway? Working a six-day week, the lone Sunday zips past, and before the coffee has even kicked in, bam! here's Monday already. Meh.
As if it's not bad enough it's Monday, you bump into people on the elevator in your apartment building/ at work. Worse if they're the
moronic cheerful sort, who love Mondays, are perkier than Betty Boop and hate weekends because "there's nothing to do". I hate when they go, "So, how was your weekend?" C’mon, really, like you even care. So I debate about whether to launch into a tirade about the laundry, my washing machine that's on the blink, about woes with my house help, or how I ran out of vegetables and had to survive on Maggi (which isn't a bad thing) for Sunday lunch and dinner. But no, I don't - only because I'm mortally afraid that I'll get a reciprocated update. So the thing here is, what's the appropriate response to "what's up?", "how was your weekend?", "how are you" and the like? You get my drift.
Cut to lunchtime Monday. Scene on the elevator, rinse, repeat. Twice. Briefly contemplate tossing in something that’ll range from mildly to severely risqué and/ or scandalous, but throw it up in favour of the less brutal. Also the fact that I'll need company at lunch through the rest of the week influences my decision. So I throw in a movie instead. And a fabricated visit to the nearest mall, singing about the sales. Sneaky. When I turn to the colleague and politely enquire about her weekend, I'm given an insight into the angst of bringing up a nine-year-old, grappling with the mother-in-law and an ill pet (dog). In graphic detail. At lunch. Really, the dog isn't the only one with buggered innards now.
Come Monday week, I'll invent something that I can describe in lurid detail as revenge. Until then, I'm still glassy-eyed from the information overload on the anatomy of a canine.