They've got tricycles in skirts.
That was it. No more blissful three-day weekends (not for a time, anyway). Back to the mad traffic rush, with screaming kids in school buses and frantic parents trying to get to work in time.
I still dream of being back at school sometimes. I keep missing the school bus; sweeping the dusty floors of the classroom; adjusting the annoying tie around my neck for the daily school assembly, and being the only one doing that because, as it turns out, I was unaware that assembly had been cancelled due to unspecified reasons. Oh, and not to mention seeing your former classmates once again in all their adolescent glory.
What if there has always been three days to weekends? Nine days to a week? Thirty-six hours to a day? Ninety minutes to an hour?
In fact, what makes a Sunday, a Sunday? Why cannot Tuesday be a Thursday, or a Nesweday or Nomday for that matter? Why the long Wednesday, creating trouble with its proper pronunciation? That was not quite what we learned back in school, was it not?
Well, yesterday was a bit strange. Monday felt so much like a Sunday, despite the fact that the brain registered otherwise. That brought a mild gloom to the holiday cheer somewhat, because, inevitably, the ‘in’ tray on your workstation beckons.
Still, there was this distinct hint of lethargy, of a certain idleness normally associated with that particular day, drifting in the air for the whole of yesterday.
Suddenly, being lazy did not seem so bad after all.