Behold, a Monday! And as with every Monday, I get up swearing blind that this Monday will be different. Yes, for some reason, this will be the Monday that I get the whole week right – I will be ultra-organised at work and storm through my workload and pick up other people’s work, and I will be Well and fit and go to fightclub and not buy anything from the canteen all week, having remembered to make bread and buy sandwich fillings, and not waste time faffing about at home and go to bed on time, yet somehow get all the small things like the dishes and laundry and stupid little DIY jobs out of the way so I have my feet clear to create a Masterpiece!
Then the phone starts ringing and my Colleague I Suspect Is Up To Something comes through to demand a tribute of hot water and Stays, then the colleagues I get on with sidle in to rescue me by insisting I stop for a teabreak with them and bribe me with the Good coffee and before I know it, it’s lunchtime and I have eaten everything I brought already so I go to the canteen and before I know it, it is hometime and I have done nothing. And I am knackered! And my plans for the evening gradually shift from ‘fire in two hours’ study, belt into town and go fighting’ to ‘mooch home and pretend to make up for it by doing something useful’, and, these days, from that to ‘stagger home and pass out’.
Goddamn I hate this virus! It’s not even like being ill, it’s like being a massive stoner, except with all the parts that are actually any fun surgically removed, leaving only a colossal dose of lethargy and the squirming suspicion that maybe you just turned into a lazy bastard.
But this Monday has to be different, because I have to get cracking on this course I’ve been waiting two years for! Onward!
Nope, business as sodding usual.
It was slightly different, however – my Cellmate has been requisitioned by another hospital, so my colleagues came through and helped me sort the shelves (there being no earthly room for four people in an office this size while this is going on). It took an hour, during which I failed to contribute much except supporting the damn things, and afterwards instead of being all perked up by this moderate exertion, I pitched down in my chair and prayed for death. Yeah, methinks somehow this is all going tits-up already.
In fairness, I should possibly have been clued in by being barely able to stand two hours standing around watching other people be athletic on Sunday, and unable to stand a whole day standing at a cooker on Saturday.
Well, I thought, if I go home, I can do lots of studying and at least my ex-flatmate can come round and pick up the last of her stuff, and then that is a Thing Finished!
(See, this week is proceeding absolutely according to schedule. If my life was only slightly more interesting, or I was at least thwarted in more interesting ways, I could be on telly, just like the Brain, from whom the quote in the title is nicked. For those who are unfamiliar with Pinky and the Brain, they are a pair of lab mice who spend every night trying to take over the world. Like Wile E Coyote, their determination in the face of adversity is an inspiration.
Note to self: get some personal heroes who actually succeed at something.)
And lo, I got home and there was a Miracle of Dishes, as if Jesus himself had come round and magicked one dirty plate into a couple of dirty dozen, and by the time that was dealt with, my ex-flatmate had indeed come round, and stayed for a cuppa and a blether, (which was mostly my fault but you don’t want to come across all, Great, you’re here; here’s your stuff; bye!) and by that time it was… eight in the evening. Which is the time that the maths side of my brain, atrophied as it is, packs it in. Coincidentally, it is also generally the time I start in on the drawing. I sense the dawning of a Jekyll-and-Hyde-style war for supremacy in my very brain, ooh lawks.
Right. Tomorrow, everything is going to be Different!