Everyone hates Mondays.
You see half dead and grumpy faces everywhere on the buses and the trains. People literally drag their feet to work. Can almost see the sides of their lips drooping all the way to the floor. what a sight. It is fascinating to see Singaporeans who are so eager to rush into the trains just to catching up on two solid and wonderful minutes of sleep. Somehow, I am always amazed at how people are able to balance on the train without holding onto any grab-holds, but yet able to catch a power nap at the same time. Better still ,how wonderful it is to have a scent of the combination of sickening sweet deodorant, sweat and gel of the man next to you who is drenched in his own sweat.
But back to Mondays. The comforting nature and magic of weekends fizzles out at the strike of 7am for me. Somewhat like a death knell, Leslie's familiar rendition of Beijing opera (my alarm) fills my room with an awful stench of dread. The ploughman readies his tools and prepares himself to stumble into that ominous week ahead. I know I am not alone on Mondays. The entire world mourns for one another, mindful of the unrelenting blues that creep into their lives at the start of the week like clockwork.
As I sip on my coffee that never seems to take effect on Mondays, I hear a familiar jingle that nobody seems to hear but me (快乐快乐烧坏，爸爸妈妈不在 NA NA NA NA NA NA~ x 48）.
I chuckled silently and the Colosseum roars into action once more. well, at least for the next five days until the magic returns again.
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