Another Grumpy Monday

I hate Mondays. In fact, I hate Mondays so much that if it were a person, it would run away crying from the relentless barrage of expletives that I can throw at it. And all before noon.

The reason for my lack of fondness for the start of the working week is more than mere Mondayitis, which, according to recent research, is now merely a psychological illusion borne from those who have had way too much fun over the weekend. Scientists are such killjoys.

No, my hatred of Mondays stems from some serious lack of sleep that has to do with voluntary work that ends way too late on Sunday evening and paid employment that starts way too early the following day. Four hours shut-eye at most. Not even enough time to get some decent snoring action.

It makes for being a cheerful door bitch very, very, very, VERY hard work. But I manage.

That is until "Grumpy Guts Sally" walks through the doors.

Looking like she's just rolled out of bed, Sally enters wearing her trademark crusty-eyed frown and equally crusty demeanour. A friendly question about her health elicits no more than a simple grunt – which is just as well, since seeing her thin-lipped mouth still stained with dried drool would probably kill a small animal when she actually opens it.

Today, I came close to throttling her.

Me: Morning.
Sally: Hmph.
Me: Erm, okay then.
Sally: Well, what’s so good about it anyway?
Me: It's the start of a new day?
Sally: Only for people who get to sleep in.
Me: Maybe – but I don't. And I don't get to sleep until late either.
Sally: That's because you stay out all night partying.
Me: Not at all. I do voluntary work.
Sally: Wait until you have kids. You'll know what sleepless is like.
Me: Up yours, lady.

So, I didn't really say that last part, but boy, if I was already a millionaire and wasn't working hard to sustain my childless lifestyle, well, she would have been like Monday running away.