Hating Mondays

More people than you’d imagine hate these high days and holidays; these ridiculous Mondays off that have a semblance of Christmas and Valentines and birthdays spent alone about them.

For most, (bank holidays, at least) they are a welcome relief from the monotony and tedium of their lives. They can fall into bed (their own or someone else’s) on Sunday night and not have to be up at the crack of the alarm clock to catch the train, do the ‘school run’, dash for the bus, schlep themselves into their car and sit in the rush hour jam for far too long while precious minutes of their lives slip by, minutes during which they would be doing …. nothing, very likely.

For others, they are a reminder of what they have lost, or never had to begin with.

I know. I have heard their stories.

For many, it is just another day, no better than the last one; worse, in all probability, because they will be forced to feel the pain of whatever it is they have pushed to the back of their mind.

There is the Scottish agoraphobic alcoholic with the shaking voice who would have taken himself and his bottle to the grave already were it not for the small dog who depends upon him.

There is the woman who will never see her children again due to the number of times she has tried to take her own life in the hope of escaping the horror of her past. (One day she will succeed.)

There is the motherly sounding housewife who’s medication does not always work, who hears the voices that tell her her sister’s fatal cancer was all her doing and she weeps because she believes them.

And there are thousands of others; they all hate these Mondays.