Thursday.

In theory, I rather like thursdays - I only teach one lesson, and that's not until the evening. In practice, however, it's a different story. I intend having a lie-in, but still get woken earlier than anyone else by the need to look after son and wife - get breakfast for former, then coax him into school uniform and make his lunch, while gently coaxing my wife from the fields of sleep without getting my arm ripped off. So, I'm still awake early. This is usually compounded with a mild hangover, as I treat myself to a bottle or so of good wine on Wednesday night, knowing I'm not getting to work early. A whole morning stretches before me: A whole morning to do new and wonderful things. A nd what do I end up doing? Watching daytime fucking TV. Before I know it, Kilroy's voice is saying something like ' Your husband? been kidnapped by aliens? nd then? Gang-probed? And liked it?' in that peculiar west-midlands inflection of his, and then I kind of come out of a strange trance-like state in time for the one o'clock news, nothing done, nothing achieved, and the washing-up festering just a little more in the kitchen. Oh well, bollocks to it all.