Back in the days when Thursday was Friday,
I only worked four days a week. So, on Thursday, whilst others were toiling away, barely halfway through their working week, I had that "Friday" glow. I'd sometimes celebrate with my own personal dress-down Thursday. Everyone else clad in sober dark suiting, I would sparkle like a star in a pair of pink patent sling-backs and a lilac tutu. (For students of the English language - the previous sentence contains examples of hyperbole.)
By now you are probably getting the idea - Thursday was a good day, a day to be savoured, an eagerly anticipated belle jour. If I were asked what colour Thursdays were, I would have said a bright lustrous green full of promise for a long leisurely weekend.

But now, flippin 'eck now - Thursdays are a doom-laden shitty brown. Thursdays are the day after the day in which I swallow the devil's droppings. Yes folks, Wednesday is the day I take methotrexate (see below); so Thursday is now the day when I try to hang on to the contents of my digestive system - a task not unlike carrying a bowl of carrot and tomato soup across the deck of a tramp steamer in a force nine gale - it's difficult to get to the other side without some spillage.

So now, in a move that all right-thinking people will welcome, I declare Wednesday to be the new Friday. So whilst you slave away at your soul-destoying, backbreaking labours, the boss breathing down your neck eager to find fault, and less than half way through the working week - I will be found engaged an enviable variety of delightful and engaging sofa-based activities* - and trying to forget that tomorrow is Thursday.


* - listening to the radio, watching videos, pratting about on the computer, munching Mars bars, reading, and maybe, just maybe, a little light dusting