These days, there are few things I dread more than the weekend. The weekend means full campsites. The weekend means traffic. The weekend means crowds, and no parking, and screaming children.
Sundays are the worst of them. Sundays mean closed libraries. Sundays mean limited PF hours. Sundays mean closed cafes and geriatric drivers.
We’re indoctrinated to worship the weekend. To wait for Friday, to lust for Saturday, and to relish slow Sundays.
I’m here for the Mondays. Mondays, when the people leave, when the parks aren’t full, when the campsites are available, when the cafes open at 6am, and when the libraries have gloriously regular hours.