Being a Londoner, there are some things you have to do for survival purposes (just call us Bear Grylls…we like that…roaaww). One of these things – and perhaps the most fundamental to our emotional wellbeing – is to lie. No, not to others (naughty), but to ourselves. In particular on a Sunday night when the walls start closing in after a heavy weekend of drinking, partying and spending. lots. of. money. And we aren’t talking small, white lies such as ‘the label is obviously wrong, this is actually a size 4, and nothing to with the 7 doughnuts we ate…before trying the jeans on’, but big. fat. lies.
1. It’s 6pm, Sunday isn’t over.
Unless you’ve been brave enough to carry on with a boozy Sunday-Funday, by 6pm your weekend is over, folks. OVER. And yet we sit there, on the sofa, counting the one, two, three, four hours left until we have to go to bed and then WAKE UP FOR WORK, telling ourselves that the weekend isn’t over and that in fact we can still have a lot of fun and do weekend activities whilst making the most of the nice weather we’ve had over weekend by perhaps going for a walk, or to the pub, or…watch tv until 9:30 and then feel even worse and moodily drag yourself upstairs. See? Over.
2. My bank balance is this low because I live in London…not because of last night.
And obviously not because of the night before that. Or the Thursday drinks you had after work. Or the 17 jäger bombs, 9 double vodkas, 7 large reds, 11 pints and 1 whiskey you’ve had in total over the weekend. Nope, definitely not that. You will sit there, staring at a number so sub-zero that even Antartica can’t relate and you will fume about how expensive travel, rent, food, that cinema trip two weeks ago, and just keeping alive in general is in London. And you will convince yourself it’s because of that. And you will go to bed believing it. And on Monday it all will be forgotten. And you’ll still get that £3.65 Espresso on the way to work. Because that’s not the problem. The buses and rent are. Duh.
3. I enjoy work.
No I haven’t thought of every excuse possible, including contemplating dropping this pan of boiling water onto myself, so that I don’t have to go to work. Because I love my job. I LOVE MY JOB. Sorry for shouting. I just really love it. Really, I do. I love getting up at 7. When it’s cold and dark. Who likes a warm, cozy bed anyway? Weirdos. Freaks. Pah. Not me! I’d much rather travel during rush hour, getting bashed and jolted for 45 minutes in a sweaty haze of tiredness and confusion than stay in bed until 11 doing nothing….no, I’m not crying. I’ve just been cutting onions, ok?
4. Food on Sunday doesn’t count.
Nom nom nom nom nom. NOM nom nom. It’s Sunday. It doesn’t count. Nothing counts on Sunday. I’ve had a hard weekend. Probably burnt alllll the calories throwing those insane shapes on the df. Alcohol obviously doesn’t count. This pizza doesn’t either. Neither does that entire tub of Ben and Jerry’s. Anyway, diet starts tomorrow, so that’s cool. And it’s winter…
5. I was too busy to have done anything cultural this weekend.
So my plan to go to the V & A and the theatre fell through. But it’s not my fault that brunches, internet shopping and Netflix dramas took up all my time. There’s always next weekend (*where these same thoughts will repeat themselves*), plus the theatre is expensive and I’ve already seen all the free things at the V & A when I visited with my mum 3 years ago. And it won’t have changed anyway. I’ll still tell people I went, though…
6. It’s not long until Friday.
It is. Days, in fact.
Featured Image Credit: London Calligraphy