Dear Tuesday,
I hate you.
Don't take it personally though, it's simply because you're much the same as any other day and I hate them too.
I awake to the sound of happy, laughing children at play. This is followed by the sound of children arguing, soon turning to the sound of one child crying and another screaming "I DIDN'T DO IT!"
I arise, dole out a beating to the unruly children, wash and clothe the Host Body and stumble down the stairs.
A bowl of what I can only describe as milk-soaked gravel is shoved into my hands. I choke down this barely edible filth and open my netbook.
Having sifted through six pages of Viagra spam mails, I find the one, legitimate e-mail that I have. It's a bill, of course.
Once the children are fed and watered, I hose them down in the back yard, dress them in scraps of hessian sack and pack them off to nursery.
Peace and quiet finally obtained, I settle in to enjoy a little console gaming or perhaps watch a film.
Peace is then shattered by the Marital Unit, who informs me that we are going shopping. Screaming obscenities, I climb into the family car and we make the short trip to that most dreaded of destinations, Tesco.
Marital Unit needs three tins of tuna and a toothbrush, she knows exactly where these items are, she could do this trip in five minutes.
What she does instead, is visit every single aisle in the store, view damn near every individual item, exclaims loudly at items she deems overpriced and/or incredibly cheap, then places three tins of tuna and a toothbrush in the massive trolley which she selected and heads to the checkout.
We are served by an extra from Night Of The Living Dead, who we offend terribly by not having brought our own carrier bags. We have 6000 carrier bags, stored in larger carrier bags, taking up every last inch of space in our understair cupboard. We never take these bags to the supermarket.
The Serving Troll flings a handful of bags at us and runs the tuna and toothbrush across the Irritating Beeping Fail Machine (TM). The toothbrush fails to scan and I can actually see the moment where Serving Troll's tiny mind snaps. He or she grimaces, presses a red button on the console and summons the Pricing Goblin. This shambling monstrosity lurches over, takes a look at the toothbrush and bumbles off through the crowd to find a price.
All the while, Serving Troll glares at me as though it is somehow my fault that their antiquated till system has failed once again.
Pricing Goblin returns, grunts "50p!" and fades back into the crowd, possibly to hunt for a tasty goat.
Serving Troll jabs at the buttons in front of him/her, shoves the toothbrush in to my hands and demands £2.62 I hand over a ten pound note, apologetically explaining that I have nothing smaller. Weeping and possibly contemplating suicide, Troll begins the incredibly difficult task of making change. When I receive my change, I open the change section of my wallet and drop it in, allowing it to clink off of the pile of coins within. Smiling, I say "Wow, guess I had change after all"
As Serving Troll proceeds to tear the till to shreds with it's bare hands, I leave Tesco whistling a jaunty tune.
We return to the homestead, pack away the tuna and toothbrush and I sit down to enjoy some...no, of course not.
I am badgered, harassed, harangued and sometimes beaten until I do "a few jobs while the kids are out" Having re-tiled the roof, mowed the lawn, prepared a rack of lamb for the evening and cured the worlds ills, finally I find five seconds for myself.
At this moment, Marital Unit leaves to collect the children.
Giving up on any chance of a moment of peace, I check my e-mail quickly, delete the latest barrage of spam and then brace myself for impact.
The children come flying through the door at full ramming speed, tackle me to the floor and lovingly pummel my testes into a fine paste. Wincing, I welcome them home and then try to ignore them until bedtime.
The hours pass slowly, the children are fed, bathed and bedded and I settle down to, please God, enjoy that rare moment of relaxation.
Marital Unit spends the next six hours telling me what "Arold said to Mavis" before heading to bed.
I am now faced with a terrible choice.
Do I attempt to squeeze in a few hours for myself, in the latter half of the evening, or do I head upstairs with Marital Unit to get some much needed sleep and perhaps enjoy the pleasures of the marital bed.
Being male, I opt for sex and so head upstairs.
Receiving a hearty slap and "Not bloody likely mate!" for my efforts, I return to my couch, thinking I can at least put in a couple of hours on Halo before sleep.
I turn on the X-Box, get comfortable...and pass out.
Damn it, here comes Wednesday.
***************************************************
James McLellan (Host Body of Al Vimh)
