Tuesday. We need to have a chat. Because we’re clearly not getting on.
Last week you screwed me over. I overslept. Argued with Beaver over hairstyles. Then I missed my train. That wasn’t enough for you though and you ended your weekly appearance with me falling up the stairs and spilling dinner all over the new carpet.
I was willing to let it go. It was a one off, I thought. We all have bad days. And you were taking yours out on me.
But then you started again today. Waltzing in like you own the week.
I embrace you by getting up at 6.00 AM for bootcamp but you couldn’t care less. You reward me with a headache and an anxious, oppressive feeling that I can’t shake for most of the day.
So I’m taking issue with it now. And I’ve done a little background check on you. It turns out you’re not as nice as you make out.
Tuesday’s child may be full of grace but what about all the other things on your record? For starters, your name originates from the Roman god of war. Not looking good is it? And just in case you’re wondering, I’m not the only one who has a problem with you.
The Greeks consider you pretty unlucky after the fall of Constantinople. Then there’s the Americans and Black Tuesday and the rumour you started the Great Depression. In Japan and Korea you mean ‘Fire Day.’ Say no more.
So I’m onto you, Tuesday. I know your game. And next week, I’ll be ready for you.
Oh and before you try and redeem yourself with tales of Shrove Tuesday, don’t bother.
I can live without pancakes.
If I have to.