Friday hurts

Fridays hurt. Not just the bursting feeling in my chest as I watch the seconds slowly drip away, or the counting-yet-not-counting down to the beginning of Friday Night and The Rest Of The Weekend, or even the urge to simply yell when the numbers in the bottom right-hand corner just don’t change fast enough.

No. It’s that every twinge, every ache, every secret inward gleeful grin at the appearance of that magical number “5” in the hour is, really, nothing much more than a cacophonous counterpoint to the small and sadly serious voice, speaking softly;

Surely, surely, there is more to life than waiting for it to begin.

[I’m a whiner, really. It’s not all bad, especially when you think about it – I spent 3 hours last Friday after lunch bouncing on a giant Pilates ball, and had colleagues who not only laughed and disapproved not one whit, but one in particular who bounced right along with me.

It’s just that, you know, it’s Sunday night, and next weekend is ever so far away.]