Saturday morning, Manchester wakes up. A drunk student and a crazed raccoon wrestle in the bins for a chicken sub and a half-can of Pringles. The alarm clock goes off – MEEEEEEP MEEEEEEP (well, it’s more like a soft ~toodlidee didoodidoo~ but on a Saturday morning it sounds like a regiment of pissed-off Scottish bagpipe players going MEEEEEEP MEEEEEEP). There’s not much to do on a Saturday morning when all you look forward to is brunch at 12 and an afternoon nap to digest it. But then will you say, and rightly so, why does he bother us with ticking, tocking, MEEEEEEPing and clocking if there is no need for an alarm clock on Saturdays?
Because there is work to do.
Oh the horrendous thing. Burden on my shoulders, pebble of misery in my happy shoe. Where did this silly idea of working come from anyway? Who decided it was man’s duty to lock himself up between grey walls and grey minds, slaving his life away instead of running naked in the fields, frolicking and shitting all day in everlasting glee like the other animals?
Such are the thoughts that come to mind when you have an essay to write and that you already vacuumed and dusted, did the laundry, painted the ceiling and reorganized your stamp collection. Oh, and listening to Rite of Spring doesn’t help, it makes you see everything in a dramatic way. Of course at some point you realize that you do have a deadline to meet or that it will be far worse when you get an actual job… Onto writing essays then.