‘I don't care if Monday's blue
Tuesday's grey and Wednesday too
Thursday I don't care about you
It's Friday, I'm in love’
So said the busker in Liverpool Town Centre. The one with the big hat who reminds you a bit of James Blunt. I believed him too. The sun on my face and the shiny bracelet I found on the floor made every alright with me.
The Friday Feeling quickly evaporated with a frantic episode of attempting to catch missed trains, and trying to convince two very scouse ladies in the ticket office that B-O-R-T-H was in fact a real place. Much sprinting up and down stopped escalators and a little flirting did eventually ensure L a safe journey to meet her family.
With the busker’s words still ringing in my head however, I picked up some beers and headed determinedly home aboard the hottest, foulest excuse for an 80a I have ever witnessed. The journey dragged. I resorted to translating my own thoughts into French to try and dull the ache of being surrounded by people for whom buses are not only a form of transport, but of entertainment. My stop in sight I snatched up my possessions and began excusing my way to the front of the bus when RIP.
Nothing died, the bag just split. Now clutching two four-packs of premium lager in my hands, I staggered from the station and broke into a jog, determined to put a halt to the rapidly increasing journey time. The beers made their own bid for a freedom half way home and I was left chasing eight individual cans of Carling down a main road. Bereft of dignity, beer and any trace of Friday Feeling a kind lady cautiously offered me another bag. I did my best airs graces and tried not to seem like a young drunk who had just stolen his night’s bevvies from an off license.
500 Days of Summer concluded the day. Our protagonist of the film loves Summer. Matured, he eventually however falls for Autumn. I cling to the hope that I can treat the days of the week the same way. When Friday offers nothing but frustration, I can but turn to Saturday for sensation.
a la prochaine. x