I got to thinking about Wednesdays this morning. As it is Wednesday, I suppose that’s to be expected. I have never cared much for this day, to be honest. When I was still working, the weekend seemed a long way off, and a working Wednesday always seemed to drag longer than any other day of the week. Even though I was working shifts and often had a Wednesday as a day off, it never lost that feeling of being an unwelcome day.
Since I retired, I often say that the days of the week are irrelevant to me now. That’s not strictly true of course, as Julie gets weekends off, so we can still look forward to that time together. But retired or not, there is still something about that day that always makes me uneasy about its arrival.
By a strange coincidence, the evening TV shows are always less interesting on Wednesdays too. It’s as if the schedulers suffer from the same malaise as I do, and can’t be bothered to offer anything worth watching on that day. Instead, they cram all the good stuff into the next day, Thursday, showing every programme worth watching at the same time too, 9 pm.
Thinking back, I cannot recall anything interesting happening on a Wednesday, either. I am sure that someone can tell me the anniversary of a special Wednesday, or that it is the International Pea-eating festival somewhere on the planet, but as far as I am concerned, Wednesdays are just dull. The most important thing about the day for me, is to remember to put out the rubbish bin, for the Thursday collection.
Today started off with some promise. The sun was out, and it was uncomfortably warm. However, the cloud soon descended, until the outlook was more like evening, than morning. Something had to be done, so we decided to drive out somewhere into the gloom, and try to make the most of another Wednesday.