Monday mornings are the worst things in the world
Joe Longbottom
Creative Writing
Monday mornings are the worst things in the world for a number of reasons. One, it's the beginning of the week and another five days to go until Friday my official party night! Two, you have to get up to go to work which usually entails the dog bursting into my room at 6:30 in the morning and losing half of its body's drool supply from his tongue onto my face. Three, the worst of all the Monday morning treatments, my flat mate. I thought that no one else could hate Mondays more than me. It could not be physically possible or that's what I thought, but then I met Rob, my flat mate.
Try getting him up on Monday mornings! It takes about half an hour to get to his bed through all the mess and dirty laundry, even the dog is scared to go into his room and I don't blame him. When you finally reach his bed you have the risk of getting numerous broken bones or, even worse, the death penalty. No doubt he would give you the choice of lethal injection or public hanging, he's a good hearted lad deep down! He has lost about five girlfriends that way, poor things I did tell them, now not even plastic surgery could save them now.
So, after all this commotion, I set off to work leaving my dog in the capable hands of my mum. I always thought that the way to tell if someone is old is if they get up at a stupidly early time like 7:00 in the morning even though they don't have to get up for any thing. The second sign is when they listen to Terry Wogan on the BBC Radio 2 Breakfast Show. Well any way, I realised that these exact things had happened to my mum and dad, and a long time ago at that!
After that lovely brief encounter with the folks I toddle on down to the place where I spend most, if not all, of my time. I reckon my life is about 49 percent bed, 1 percent in the car and leisure activities and 50 percent this place. Obviously, I am talking about my work place. I work at a gym and I am the chief fitness instructor there, which basically means if someone hurts themselves it's my fault. I do love my job, I meet loads of, well, I'd call them interesting people. The other day I had ...
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After that lovely brief encounter with the folks I toddle on down to the place where I spend most, if not all, of my time. I reckon my life is about 49 percent bed, 1 percent in the car and leisure activities and 50 percent this place. Obviously, I am talking about my work place. I work at a gym and I am the chief fitness instructor there, which basically means if someone hurts themselves it's my fault. I do love my job, I meet loads of, well, I'd call them interesting people. The other day I had someone in that thought he had been abducted by aliens and that's why he joined the gym, because the aliens told him he was too unfit and they won't abduct him again if he gets fit. Each time he comes in now I have to ask him, just out of interest and a good laugh, if he has been abducted again? I get a long and in-depth talk about how he's deadly serious and how they are all going to kill us like in the film "Independence Day". Apart from the bit where Will Smith kills the aliens because the aliens win in real life. After that he goes off to jog a little so the aliens won't abduct him.
Then I go straight into the staff room and we absolutely wet ourselves with laughter. Reappearing in the gym room looking like we have all been crying, with all the customers asking if we're OK? The manager soon puts a stop to any fun we try to have, moody sod. I stagger through the day helping people on the machines trying to keep a smile on my face and then it strikes me. I usually play rugby on Tuesday nights but not this week. I'm missing the training session to take my lovely girlfriend out to thecinema, then for a meal. Which is my big dilemma. I have no money and the girlfriend, Gab, doesn't take kindly to cheapskates - bad news for me seeing as I get paid on Friday and it is now only Monday. I could ask my mum and dad but I already owe them, well, I lost count of the amount about 18 years ago. I could ask my flat mate but the chances of him having any money are, as small as me winning the lottery, three weeks in a row. I could ask the girlfriend to pay for it but then I would get my teeth knocked out meaning I would have to pay my life savings in dentist bills and even that would only do one tooth. You can see my problem.
My mission, whether I choose to accept it or not, is to get money for Tuesday night and it is Monday night at 21:13. My chances of actually pulling this off are close to nil. That night I sit up, trying to find ways of raising the amount of money I will need. Here are my top five-
. Flee the country.
2. Buskin' on the main High Street.
3. Pretend I am a hoover demonstrator and go down the back of everyone's sofa.
4. Auction off body parts on the Internet.
5. Sell my body for medical research.
In the morning, even before the bath of dog slobber, I ring work telling them I have an incredibly incurable contagious disease. They suggested I should stay at home. That's one obstacle out of the way. The phone rings and I think who could that be? There I am trying to find the phone and I think Rob's room. As soon as I open the door he's answered it and before I know it, he's passing the phone over to me-it's her. I'm standing there looking like I'm doing semaphore, like a mad man trying to tell Rob to tell her I'm not here. Obviously it didn't work, he still handed the phone over. What followed after that was the accumulation of all my years lying and avoiding, questions and I tell you I did well. Damn well!
First stop this morning, the bank. In I go, I get the usual "how are you, sir?" and all that rubbish. They check out what you're wearing and if it's not a Vasachi suit you're not suitable for a loan from their bank, and suddenly you're not a "sir" any more you're a "thing" or "it", if you're lucky. OK, so the bank didn't work. What else can I do? She will kill me if I don't take her out tonight. I know I have a ten-pound note in my pocket. I'll get Lucky Luke to make some money out of it. He's is the luckiest gambler on the face of this earth and he has never in his life lost a bet, or that's how the legend goes. I went to his pad and asked him and he said he'd do it for 30 percent cut of the profits. So, obviously, I agreed. Anyway, I left him to work his magic. He told me to return at 6 o'clock, which is 1 hour before I am supposed to meet the girlfriend, so I hope it all goes well.
I returned at 6 o'clock (as I said I would) all tarted up 'cos I was going straight onto the cinema to meet up with Gab. I get to Luke's-he comes down, I look at him, He looks at me. I nearly break down in tears, I can just tell he didn't win. He lost it all. Can you believe it, did he lose it all? I have no money and a girlfriend who will be extremely messed off with me if I don't take her out tonight in about 1 hour. OK major crisis here, what to do? I have two choices One, go home and pretend I forgot Two, go and tell her I have no money. Or throw myself under a bus - that's three choices. I don't know which one will make her more angry. I'll go, she'll understand, I hope. 7 o'clock goes, ten past, twenty past, half past, 8 o'clock. I start to think that I have been stood up here. So I walk home wondering what's going on.
I phone her instantly when I get through the door. Oh no, you have to be kidding me it wasn't tonight it was Wednesday night. I have to go through all of this again! You must be joking? I'll just die. I tell you what sitting here now writing this just makes you think what lengths I would go to, to please her. It's insane, I tell you. Damn insane! I tell you what, with this dog that has more drool than David Beckham at a Spice Girl's concert, Rob with his lethal Monday phobia and the girlfriend it keeps my life full. But I would have it no other way. That's life. As they say!