Today Monday is hurting me. I have discovered that, while four weeks temping in Luton is just about tolerable, the fifth week causes my soul to erode in a particularly painful manner.
As I stepped off the train this morning I felt my life get suddenly about twenty-six times worse. What, I wondered idly, the fuck am I doing? I hate office work, I hate Luton, I hate pretty much every aspect of all of this.
I have been trying this morning to force myself out of the depths of despair, thinking of positive things like music and forthcoming gigs and studio stuff, but only partially succeeding. I am spending rather a lot of today staring at walls and glancing despondently at the clock.
I did, however, have a wonderful weekend. On Friday after I escaped from Luton I sped into London to meet Mr Curly. We had some beers in Camden before heading into Central London to meet some of his friends, which was delightful. On the way home I was accosted by two men, who were nice to me, then less nice to me when I declined to hand over my telephone number, then suddenly lots nicer to me again when I gave it to them. Well, a version of it, at least. I sauntered off the train secure in the knowledge that I would not have to be "shown the sights of Milton Keynes" at any point in the near future, which was rather a relief.
The following day I woke up only slightly hungover. I took myself off to my piano lesson, then came home and thought about getting ready for my birthday party. I lay in the garden watching the freckles land gently on my arms for a while, talking to my parents and thinking about shoes before taking myself off for two hours of "getting ready", which involved lying on my bed, painting all but two of my nails (not deliberate), messing around on the Internet, talking on the phone and other such unrelated activities, as well as some showering/hairdrying/clothes-choosing basics.
A few hours later I was safely in the Hoxton Square Bar and Kitchen, first gin and tonic in front of me, looking bemusedly at my semi-painted fingernails. During the course of the evening about thirty-five people showed up, and most of them bought me more gin and tonic. It was fabulous. They sang Happy Birthday to me (something I may or may not have prompted) and looked to be having a marvellous time.
The night was deemed a success, only clarified by the extent of my hangover the next morning. I was looked after by two of my nicest friends, with whom I hung around whimpering until well into the evening.
On second thoughts, perhaps it isn't surprising that I feel a little out of sorts on this sunny Monday. The thing is, though, that even in the sun Luton looks to me to be a particularly dreary and horrible sort of a place. I feel most upset by it today, and am wishing fervently that I was anywhere else in the whole world, bar perhaps Iraq, or Coventry.
Now I must trudge woefully back for an afternoon of heavy sighs and daydreams. If anyone would like to rescue me and show me a good time (although preferably not in Milton Keynes) I would really, really appreciate it.