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Angelica and I seem locked in a never-ending cycle of Tuesdays. Now, I’m not one of those people that have a strong dislike of Tuesdays, even though it is one of the most unnoteworthy days of the week. I won’t say it’s completely boring, but it’s got nothing to make it stand out from the rest. It’s the sort of day you always forget. You can’t rely on it. Tuesday is a kind of “what day is it?” day, where the answer never fails to bring exclamations like: “Only Tuesday? God, I thought it was Wednesday already”. Give me Monday any day of the week. At least you know what day of the week it is with Monday. Or used to, back in the days before lockdown. Nowadays, every day is Tuesday.
Monday was always the start of the week, loved and hated at the same time. You loved it because you might see that woman on your way to work, and you hated it because you were on your way to work. That very ambiguity has served as inspiration for songs like “I hate Mondays” and “Monday, Monday”. Wednesday stands out mainly for being midweek, an important position for any day, and one that Wednesday will never give up. Thursday is the day before payday, or used to be, and Friday is the day we thank God for. Saturday and Sunday speak for themselves. But only one Tuesday stands out from a whole year’s Tuesdays, and that’s Shrove Tuesday. Pancake Day in Britain. The day when Mum got out the frying pan to toss pancakes, before rolling them up with lemon juice and sugar. An event that loses most of its appeal not long after puberty. And now we have Tuesday every day, or might as well have.
Well, that’s my thought for today’s Tuesday and forever and ever till Unconfinement Day cometh. Or was Tuesday yesterday? Is it really Wednesday already? Things must be looking up. Or would be if Angelica and I could stop thinking every day is Tuesday.
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