It’s Monday and I have a worse than usual case of Mondayitis. I fact I’m in the foulest mood imaginable, despite the lovely view from work, of snow-laden Brindabellas.
Weekends are for recharging your batteries so that you can face the next working week refreshed and full of zing. Unfortunately, my zing has zung.
A horrid concatenation of events has left me feeling flatter than a beehive hairdo in a hail-storm.
Add the howling winds and icy rain that kept me off the bike all weekend to the temperatures hovering around 5-6C all weekend. Combine that with inadequate heating at home, a lack of comfort food and – the final straw – a 2.30am wake-up, courtesy of thinks-he’s-a-ninja-cat, Oscar bin Laden.
When I was a teacher, windy weather always brought out the devil in my students. They’d be off the scale naughty. It seems to have had the same effect on Oscar. How else to explain it?
There I was, actually asleep (I don’t sleep well at the best of times) at 2.30am.
Galumph galumph galumph… a blood-curdling yowl… and 6 kilos of thinks-he’s-a-ninja cat launches itself from the floor to my chest, landing with a thud that knocks the breath out of me and probably cracks my sternum. Thank god I’m under several layers of bedding in this freezing weather, or no doubt his razor-sharp ninja claws would’ve shredded my PJs and my delicate little self inside them.
Wide awake, I get my breath back, slow my racing heartbeat and nurse my bruised sternum. Thinks-he’s-a-ninja-cat has taken himself off somewhere to plot his next attack.
Not if I get him first.