A Ten Foot Pole

The end of the weekend. Are you feeling a bit down at the prospect of getting back to pecking away at the coalface with your little pick? Or are you elated at the thought of scoofling about on your knees catching the crumbs from your masters table?

A good question isn't it. Particularly on a Sunday when a lot of us regular folk are faced with the horrifying spectre of work the next day.

It can be a daunting prospect. Sunday's can, therefore be a little fraught with the thought of working the next day.

That why I like to think

What will be will be. You can't change it. Well, I mean technically you could. You could go into work tomorrow and tell your boss to...

_{quaint Glasgow saying meaning, kindly insert something jabby where it should never be inserted}

It's a little coarse but should have the desired effect of getting you that amazing lifestyle change you have been dreaming of. But then, must you really go that far in the pursuit of happiness? Or is it easier to just let go of the worries and stresses of being at work and thinking ce la vie. Which pretty much equates to Fuck it in French.

These thoughts and others bounded through my head as I had lunch with the good lady. I looked over at her at one point and noted she seemed to be a little pre-occupied. She was obviously dwelling on the injustices of life and of having to work the next day.

It's alright lass, fuck it. Let's enjoy life and not worry about such trifles

She looked at me flatly.

When are you cutting the grass?

I understood this immediately. Its a psychological technique called displacement. Obviously, her upset at working the next day was not being faced head on and was manifesting itself in other indirect ways.

I went over and patted her flanks gently in that way that's always been so successful with horses and dogs.

It'll be ok lass. Trust me.

I mean it, it's like a fucking jungle out there. When are you cutting the grass?

Oh, she had it bad. I thought I had better pull out the big guns. I gave her shoulders a quick rub for four seconds then offered her a lovely cup of tea.

She glared at me like I was a wet rat that had crawled out of the sewer and into her mouth.

The grass. Cut it.

Darlin, I know you are just feeling a bit down at the prospect of working tomorrow. The grass can wait. I would rather we did something that made you happy.

Nothing would make me happier than seeing you half naked pushing the lawn mower about sweetie.

But, but. I'm working tomorrow? Maybe I could have a beer instead?

The grass. Cut it.

I had been putting it off for weeks. She had me cold. I gave her my best sad face and tried to muster a small tear.

But, I've got the blues. I've got work tomorrow?!?

Haven't we all? Man up. With that, she swept away imperiously.

Bastard, foiled again I thought. I hate cutting the grass.