Home, Humour, Lifestyle, London

Monday On The Tube With Emma

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Hello everybody. HAPPY MONDAY. Said no one ever.

I started writing this blog last night. So I have issues with Sundays. Sundays are Food. Sleep. Daydreams. Films. Hangovers. Laundry. Duvets. Friends. List writing. Recipe planning. Family. Dog walks. Avoiding tourists. The smallest amount of tidying you can do without being a disgrace. Sunshine. Rain. Wellies. Books. Candles. Chocolate. Rest. Peace.

But after six to eight hours of R&R and TLC there comes an inevitable point in the day when Monday starts glowing in the distance. Not like a romantic, sunset glow, or a pregnant glow, or a South of France glow, or a glow worm. More like a pressing, heated fury, like when you leave a hot water bottle on your stomach for too long, or burn a hole in your carpet with your iron.

And Monday stays. It glowers. And Sunday becomes less Rest and Peace and more Rest in Peace. And with every deep breath, sip of tea or roast potato there’s a slow build-up of tension within at the prospect of starting all over again.

At this point I think it’s important that I mention that I really like my job. There is a snack table. 

Nevertheless, I find the Sunday blues are impossible to chase away. It all of a sudden seems very easy to want to bury myself under my duvet and read all of the books in the entire world forever instead. I don’t want to be a grown-up. I don’t want to take off my slipper socks for anyone or anything. I think I will miss my favourite mug while I am at work. I want very much to hide in my wardrobe and see if my toys will come alive. 

And I blame the commute.

Like basically everyone I know, I’m always slightly annoyed when I wake up and I’m not Emma Stone. And Monday morning does nothing to console me. Those blues are on every face, every street corner, every steaming cup of coffee, every trampled Metro, squashed commuter, broken escalator, delayed service, lost Oyster card, forgotten keys, ambitious Tupperware, lonely journey, missed alarm, forgotten weekend…

A combination of a new routine and lack of sleep makes me start to re-evaluate myself and my life on my way into work. As I try not to get my head stuck under someone else’s armpit I think about what the people around me would say about my life. Who I really am, at the weekend, away from my desk, not here, trying to survive getting elbowed in the eyeballs on the Victoria line. What they would think about my pyjamas (not matching). Or the contents of my cupboard (basically just tea and Marmite). What I’m reading. What’s on my iPod. What I wash first in the shower. What I have for breakfast. Which deodorant I use. How my sock drawer looks. How cold my feet get at night.

I travel to work in some kind of trance, examining myself from above like a particularly exhausted and slightly scrambled looking bird, wondering what I’m actually doing here. Basically Mondays are when I get really deep. I’m thinking about my contact lenses feeling a bit dry, what everyone on this train would say if I got tampons out and started a game of dominos on the floor, how grateful I am that no one knows what music I’m listening to (Celine Dion), bed, bed, bed, polar bears, lunch time, germs, whether I drink the right amount of water, who on this train is the best cook, why if I put my left arm into my cardigan first there’s no part of me that can succeed in getting the rest on, how I’ve never run for a train and got stuck in the doors but quite frequently get stuck in the ticket barriers, how a photo of me with a pig got more likes than my last blog, what they don’t tell you about turning 25…

By the time I get off at my stop I feel like I’ve been put in a blender. Sunday seems impossibly far away, a distant, cosy blur in the face of another week. My real life. My mind is in overdrive as I slip back into my routine. Today I realised I yawn in exactly the same point on the escalator every single day. And for some vague reason that comforted me. Like taking a breath and shaking the weekend off and getting ready.

My favourite part of my journey into work is the walk to the theatre at the other end. It’s fresh, it’s sweet, it’s friendly, and with the exception of a sugar-free bakery that has every potential to dive-bomb my soul into the pits of despair, it’s happy. It’s the kind of road where you might see an avocado squashed on the pavement and I find that uniquely satisfying. By the time I get into work I don’t even care that the commute has made me look like I’ve been dragged through the desert on a broken camel, with so much concealer under my eyes I look like I’m trying to papier-mâché myself a new face, and no wonder I’m never in rush-hour crush. I like the hum of a city and an office finally waking up and coming to the same realisation. That it’s not so bad after all. And this is why caffeine was invented. And I have work to do. And I’m the closest to the snack table. I got this.

Wishing you a gorgeous week x

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