Jan 25th: THAT FRIDAY FEELING

Friday – of all the days of the week, there is surely none greater than this. Ok, there are those slightly repressed sadists with a delayed gratification fetish who might opt for a Thursday; for others, the sheer spirit-sucking tedium of the daily grind means only a Saturday will do.

For me,though, it’s Friday. Having said that, there is one element of this day that is a little too ‘Monday’ for my liking and it’s time we worked on abolishing it. I’m talking about those awful moments on a Friday afternoon/Monday morning when you realise you’ve stepped into the lift with Debbie from finance/Gary from HR/Linda on reception and there is nothing to save you from the inevitable, miserably-robotic ‘weekend conversation’. You know the one:

Debbie/Gary/Linda: Hiya. Glad it’s Friday, eh?/Eugh! It’s Monday morning.

You: (Smiling as though the aforesaid line is a revolutionary conversation topic, never before conceived by man) Yeah.

D/G/L: Are you getting /did you get up to much at the weekend?

You: (Thinking hard now – do you liven up the events of your two days of temporary awakening from a corporate coma or skate over the details to get it over with quickly? You opt for the latter) Oh, just dinner with friends and a trip to the cinema. You?

This is where I must interject, if not for your own sanity, than for that of your poor fellow lift-occupiers whose ears will, by this point, be magically sprouting arms just so they may sever themselves from their hosts’ heads. Take my advice and this inanity will be a thing of the past.

Sexing it up is the name of the game, people. In future, prior to stepping into the lift, pick a topical celebrity and base your weekend’s activities on their recent antics. Now let’s try that conversation again:

D/G/L: Did you get up to much at the weekend?

You: Oh,you know, this and that. Friday I dyed my hair back to its natural colour and had some scaffolding erected in my beehive. Saturday morning, I had another amateurish tattoo added to my collection so my arm now resembles a stereotypical proud parent’s fridge adorned with nursery school pictures. Only skinnier. And more, you know, fleshy. Later on, I popped into the prison to see my hubby and then I just had a quiet night in with a bag of valium and a crack pipe. Oh, and Sunday my dad started proceedings to get me sectioned.You?

Repeat this exercise for no more than 2-3 weeks and voila! - your days of enduring lift-time banality are over, my friend.

Don’t thank me; it’s a gift.

Until the next time.

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