28 June 2009
sundays: only really good for reading atheist books
[Totally irrelevant but rather good picture from robo bandito]
Well Ads might like Sundays, but I bloody hate them. The slight tremor of jouissance that the possibility of post brings is absent, for a start, and a pallor of eventlessness hangs over everywhere like a damp tablecloth that your auntie,in a fit of sexless depression, just washed and hung out to dry. By the time you remember that you're out of bog-roll, the shops have already shut, and public transport (especially out here in Ballard-country) is minimal or non-existent (please, please re-open the Jubilee line on weekends, you're forcing me to stay in bed and read Feuerbach. Admittedly I should be doing that anyway, eternally, but not in bed, it's slatternly).
The odd optimistic bastard pretends to play football in the park, attempting to ward off the ominous day-cloud of Mondayism...but no escape! Even if you go to the pub to pretend it's not happening, the 10.30 last orders will remind you that this is a Victorian country, if you please, and that a grown man (or woman) must not spend his (or her) weekly wage on devil's piss, or else children will grow beards and furniture will start looking sexy.
But what did I do on Sundays in the countryside? I barely remember. My homework, I expect, listened to the charts, had a bath then lay in bed with that truly miserable kind of insomnia exacerbated by the knowledge not only that you have to get up early, but that you'd only be swapping one sort of boredom for another. What a miserable git I was/am! Ha ha ha! Only made happy by writing miserable posts! Ha ha ha! Sulking as catharsis! Ah, Feuerbach, the secret of Sundays is Monday, and the truth of humanity is waiting for the post.
