Monday is always the problem.

Although to be fair, because of the way I do this thing, Monday is not always Monday.  It could, in fact, be any day of the week, but it is almost always the day on which I decide exactly what I am going to ‘talk’ about in my first post of the week.  That being Monday.  I have, furthermore, occasionally written Monday’s post a day or two after Wednesday’s or Friday’s which could, themselves, have been written who-knows-when, but I seldom worry about them.  Even if they happen to be Monday.

Still with me?  You should be very proud of yourself.

Anyway, today being an ersatz Monday, I am here staring at a blank sheet of paper with an open world ahead of me and no idea of where I want to go…  Ersatz.  Now there’s an interesting word.  I’ve no idea of where it came from nor why it came into my head (other than the space was freely available).  Does it even mean what I think it does?  Well, the dictionary says ‘substitute, usually inferior’ so it will do.  As I am writing Monday, then today must be, for all intents and purposes, a substitute Monday, albeit without the foreboding sense of ‘what’s going to go wrong this week?’ hanging over it.  Monday without strings: my own little Pinocchio – only without the annoying little insect on its shoulder.  A chance to let my imagination run free…

…To where?  Yes, well, that’s when the ‘no strings’ analogy starts to unravel like a macramé plant holder…  Does anyone actually make macramé anymore I wonder?  Was a day when every household had a resident macramé-er: plant hangers all over the house, knotted placemats, a cover for the toilet roll.  You don’t see them now.  Maybe nobody has the time these days.  Or the string…  Anyhow, as I was saying, Monday – whatever day it is actually on – is decision day: what to whittle on about (or more likely, given my propensity for prolonged and aimless whittling, what not to whittle on about) this week, because although Monday is only one post, it tends to set the pattern for the whole week.  It sets the tone.

And my wife tells me that I am tone-deaf, although I don’t think I can be, because I listen to music all the time.  Of course, there is always the possibility that, to everyone else, it doesn’t sound like music…  Not entirely likely I must admit.  I was in the choir when I was at school, until puberty robbed me of my vibrato, but I must admit, I do find it difficult to hold a tune these days.  My grasp of key is rather like a politician’s grasp of truth: very fluid.  I once reduced my wife to tears whilst trying to sing ‘Happy Birthday to You’ in a key, and to a tune, that may well have been familiar only in the outer reaches of the galaxy.

I could not function without music.  When I am at home I play it all the time, but now I have started to wonder what I am actually hearing.  Is it the same as everybody else, or is what I am hearing just the same kind of jumbled mess that seems to come out of my mouth when I try to sing?  Do I just imagine that it has some kind of tune?  I never write without music playing, but now the thought that what I am hearing is, in some way, inferior to what everyone else is hearing – ersatz music – really bothers me.  It stops me concentrating and now I have no idea of what I wanted to say.

That’s the problem with Monday…