The one hour Monday

It’s Monday so it’s not going to be fantastic. But when you wake up the sun is looking a bit brighter. You stand in the shower, shave in front of the mirror, realize you need a haircut (again) and set about making your breakfast. Your flatmate jumps into the shower, that’s a bit unusual you think; perhaps he needs to be at work early today. You eat your yoghurt, thinking that spring really is here, the sun bathes on the pages of yesterday’s Sunday Times. You brush your teeth, put your lunch in your backpack and jump on your bike while Jens Lekman sings “Like a sinking rock tied to the leg of a person, I’d rather be a flat stone skipping across the ocean” in his song Become Someone Else’s. It all feels surprisingly plesant.

Traffic is heavy on the one road called Cricklewood Broadway/Shoot-Up Hill/Kilburn High Road/Maida Vale/Edgware Road. That’s normal. You see a cyclist get pulled over by a BMW X5 police car just after Wellington Arch. He gets yelled at by an officer who doesn’t exit the car. Instead the passenger window is down and an arm is violently pointing through it, you briefly see the police man’s face, he looks very angry.

As you pass Buckingham Palace a surprising amount of tourists have already gathered. Two Harlem Globetrotters players pose for pictures with star struck Japanese tourists.  You reach your office and lock your dirty bike behind a blue Ferrari (not dirty). It doesn’t feel too bad, the Monday gloom seems suspiciously mild. Even the wait for the elevator is quicker than normal.

You the check the time on your phone as you wait for the lift to reach the 6th floor. It says 10:02. You remember restarting the phone the day before, perhaps some setting changed? When you step out of the elevator the optimism and lightheartedness has shifted into anxiety. You walk past the lobby and clocks on the wall displaying the time in different parts of the world. It is here the sunshine leaves you. Your flat mates early shower, the warm weather, the number of tourists outside Buckingham Palace. They were not signs of spring: they were signs of time. One hour of time.

And so another work week begins, one hour too late, and the Monday feeling is there, as it’s been so many times before.


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