So it was one of those Sundays that can only be considered as Monday's foreplay. (And, no offence my dear Monday, but I think we all know how crap you are.)
Morning a write-off (well, except for the Budvar-and-blast-from-the-past-chicken-kebab hours that came before 4am), for reasons of much-needed unconsciousness.
Afternoon spent in dreary contemplation of the box, the brain incapable of making any kind of working connection in order to create a thought, since all of the energy usually diverted to it is being sapped in order to fuel the massive emergency repair job that is taking place on the rest of my alcohol-abused body.
Post-FA Cup was the low point. Woe and despair as the list of things I am not doing builds up accusingly in my head (tackling the ever-increasing pile of freelance work; cleaning up the beer-bottle-strewn flat; preparing for my holiday; eating chocolate; having sex....)
Evening, and it's time to officially acknowledge the fact that the only purpose of this Sunday is to build up (or down, rather) to Monday morning, and I might as well submit now and have an early night.
So I go to bed and read some more of American Psycho (which then makes me not want to fall asleep, for reasons of much-dreaded nightmares - I knew I should have started The Long Way Round instead...).
Next thing I know, I'm dragging myself out from under the covers at 6.45am, feeling not one whit refreshed, and trawling off to get the bus.
And what do I see plastered all over the bus stop, but stickers advertising this:
It's a conspiracy, I'm telling you.
