We went to the seaside on Saturday. I felt faintly nauseous on the fairground rides, played football poorly on the beach and snapped 1,479 family photographs. It was relaxing, liberating and stimulating in equal measure; to down tools, shake off the shackles and commence my long awaited summer vacation in epic style. Time alone with the family, away from the rat race of life. My holiday had begun.
Except it hadn’t.
It’s Monday morning. 6:37 a.m. to be precise. How do I know this? Well, because I’m eyeing my alarm clock with growing unease as it inexorably creeps towards 6:45 when I’ve grandly informed myself I’ll be getting up and going to work. My holiday doesn’t actually start until Thursday and three days of working joy lie between myself and freedom for two weeks. Two weeks which feel like two years.
I jumped the gun on Saturday, false started and have now sheepishly trudged back to the start line with the watching crowd glaring disapprovingly at me. I have to get up and, horror of horrors, shave and don work clothes. You know, a nice suit, tie and proper shoes. They might as well have been slipping me into a cozy straitjacket for the foreseeable future, such is my lack of enthusiasm for this Monday morning transformation.
And it’s not just any Monday morning. It’s the Monday morning before I finish work for two weeks. Which means I have to work doubly hard, making sure everything is ship shape before my departure. The alternative is worrying about tasks I haven’t completed when I’m on annual leave, which kind of defeats the purpose of the entire exercise. There are e-mails to draft, reports to compile, conversations to be had.
I’m getting up in 3 minutes.