Seven o’clock this morning consciousness sidled up to me and whispered something in my ear. Nothing profound, nothing saucy, just one word. More of a sound, really. “Ow!” it said, for yesterday had been a physio day and consciousness didn’t like it one bit.
Three and a half hours later I have managed to give my body a little more sleep, to have a standing up bath where all the water falls down on you then vanishes down the plug hole, shaved the bit of my face that grows hair where I don’t always want to have hair, killed six vicars and dragged consciousness into town for a huge cup of caffeine type liquid. Thus I already win at Thursday.
This evening I will have a meal with twelve of my closest friends, one of whom will betray me and another of whom will deny me before the cock crows three times. No wait, that’s Jesus, not me. This evening I will probably read a book, eat leftover bolognese and tell consciousness I might let it spend the whole of Friday in bed. Now that really would be a Good Friday.
Oh, and I was completely lying about the vicars.