The Bluest Monday

David Lynch


David Lynch

The Bluest Monday

The party's over. The bins are overflowing. A head-scratching amount of empty glass bottles need to be taken to the bottle bank and the Christmas tree is still there, drooping, skeletal, but still winking at you sarcastically.

Welcome to the first week in January.

Work began in earnest after a two week break for a lot of us this week. It doesn't get much grimmer than that really.

Monday probably began for most people something like this:

Sunday night, 8pm: That remaining half bottle of wine from New Years Day needed to be put to bed and join the collection. And sure it'll settle you down ahead of D-Day.

Sunday night 8.45pm: The 'cab sav' has been drained. There's no more alcohol left anywhere in the house (you've checked every drawer, even the one which doesn't open or close properly anymore) and you're feeling no better than you did 45 minutes ago. Pop the TV on and melt away.

Sunday, 9.01pm: Nope, that didn't work either. Thoughts of the astronomical number of emails awaiting you the next morning is causing you to break out in a cold sweat. Two weeks of un-responded communications are chewing you up inside.

Sunday, 9.31pm: The 9 O'Clock news on RTE is drawing to an end - floods, death and mayhem around the globe - but it's nothing compared to the personal horror awaiting you tomorrow morning. No mention of that on the news, eh?

Sunday, 10.15pm: A certain sense of calm resignation washes over you. 'Sure there's nothing I can do about it right at this very moment, is there?'

Sunday, 10.16pm: Those bloody emails!! How will you ever get through them all! And then James from accounts will be on to you about last year's figures too. And you'll have to have them to him by the close of business. And, you haven't even bothered making my lunch for the morning...

Sunday, 10.55pm: That suspect-looking deli ham has been slovenly flung on to the two remaining heels from the sliced pan you bought about four days ago. As for butter? Not a chance. Drier than Gandhi's slipper this one.

Sunday, 11.20pm: You want to go to bed, but that will only bring about your ultimate doom even quicker. You scan the Siberian reaches of the Sky channels for something to distract you - Cake Boss. This should do for a bit. Look at those ridiculous pastries and cakes. Silly Americans.

Sunday, 11.45pm: You've fought the good fight. Your stomach is churning, but the heavy eyelids and the fact that the single glass of wine you had over two hours ago has brought about a mini-hangover means it's finally time to crawl under the duvet and head to bed.

Monday, 2.05am: You've finished reading every section of the Sunday Times - even the motoring one. Your previously heavy eyelids are glued open now and your third trip to the bathroom made you realise there's no toilet paper for the morning. Take me now Jesus...

Monday, 5.55am: You've just had a staggering three hours sleep and you feel like someone has pumped industrial quantities of polly filler into your head. You watch the glowing alarm clock beside the bed as it slowly flicks towards the wake-up alarm.

Monday 7.00am: A strange, steadily increasing noise stirs you from a most wonderful dream. You were in the Maldives with your mates and Harrison Ford (no idea) it's great fun and the sun is just fantastic. You were sipping a strange cocktail at a shack on the beach and Harrison Ford was telling a great joke..

Monday, 7.00.25am: 'It's Monday morning, isn't? So I take it we're not on holidays with Harrison Ford, no?'