The problem with Arthur Dent’s Thursday was that his house was knocked down. Closely followed by the demolition of the Earth to make way for a new hyperspace bypass.
That rarely happens to me, to be honest, but it is true that I frequently have trouble getting to grips with Thursdays. It is well on into the working week, when little brains get tired, but still some way to go until the weekend. As a result, it is, and always has been, the day when I seem to spend 15 minutes too long in bed of a morning and never catch up again.
Today was that sort of day. A day of being almost ever so slightly late; a day of dealing with lots of bits and pieces at work, none of which was really worth the effort in the grand scheme of things; a day of frustrations unresolved because other people are off sunning themselves somewhere exotic; a day of roadworks and traffic jams. In short, a day when nothing is really wrong, but one is still left unfulfilled, and with the slight hint of NSD (Non-Specific Doom) at the back of the brain.
Most Thursdays are, of course, redeemed by the fact that I get to SING of an evening. But not this evening. Not only that but, due to a complete failure to think ahead, I couldn’t get to our regular Thursday hostelry for the pre-arranged pint of IPA with my tuneful chums. Why anyone would even attempt to take a car to the pub nearest the Edinburgh Military Tattoo on an August evening defies belief. After 25+ minutes of driving in ever-increasing circles, herded by road closures, parking cones and officers of the law I gave up, stamped my feet and telephoned a lame withdrawal to the excellent chap who already had a pint lined up for me. I went home for a bit of a grumble to Mrs WeeKeef.
An Australian lady of my acquaintance texted a single word from the pub. "Wimp".
I was forced to agree.