Oh, pesh. The mere fact that it's Monday has me depressed for the rest of the week - well, until Friday evening that is. Then I'm back to my cheerful self, two whole days being all bubbly and fluffy and dandy. Then I go to work. And I'm depressed. And it's the week-end. You get the picture.
The thing is, there's just not enough time in the week-end, is there. I mean, come on, you get out of work on Friday evening, what do you do? You go out. Then you need, what, half of Saturday morning at least to recuperate 1/ from the fatigue and stress and basic annoyance of the week, and 2/ from that booze-drenched evening you just had the night before, because it's only natural that you should be celebrating the return of life as you'd always intended it to be (doing eff all), with booze, booze, a little finger-food (you are watching that silhouette), and one more for the road.
Anyways. Back to the second half of Saturday morning. Lots of coffee, a long shower, and it's off to the pub because the Six-Nations Tournament is starting and you don't want to be missing France v. Scotland. Now that takes you to 6, 6:30 (you felt you had to stay on with those nice Scots just to cheer them up - because France really didn't deserve to win - with a few friendly VB's (yeah well, the one Scottish pub in Paris was packed), and ooops, there you are outside the shops which are closing. Don't even think about catching up on "proper" shopping on Sunday morning, because you know that Saturday evening - just round the corner by then - will be making sure you either don't wake up in time, or if you do, that you just won't be able to face shopping with THAT hangover. Which, by the time you've nursed it, has in turn guaranteed that Sunday has come and gone without your contribution.
Now it's already Monday evening (look at that, a week-end gone in a couple of paragraphs, what was I saying...): 4 more days and you can do it all again, yay!