I hate Mondays

Rows:1
Coffees 3
Voice Decibel Level: 90 (Level of Passing Trains)
IQ Level: Plankton

I face the start of the week with a Boomtown Rats perspective. Over the weekend, Teenagers and I have slipped out of our working week rhythm. Apparently it should take three weeks to change a habit. My Teenagers switch from functioning nine to fivers, Monday to Friday, to the human equivalent of draft excluders by Saturday, permanently horizontal. Certainly not out of bed before noon. Monday is, therefore, a rude awakening.

Daughter’s alarm goes off religiously at six. Summarily ignored by her, it wakes everyone else. Son, dragged from his sleep by the melodic yet unwelcome Jason Marz, is incensed. The upside? We are spared his alarm choice. Present retro music fad dictates this week’s alarm is Sigue Sigue Sputnik. Deep joy.
Established morning etiquette dictates its best not to converse with Son and me until we have coffee. Husband (and step-dad) is gratingly cheerful. Ignoring protocol, he is reminded that comment’s like ‘aren’t we grumpy this morning' may result in my stabbing him with my stiletto. Son glares malevolently at him from under his unfeasibly long fringe. Husband goes off to work at 0730 and a morose calm settles. Son and I – devoted breakfasters - circle around each other, like apathetic hyenas, in our ergonomically designed kitchen. We mumble more amicably as the caffeine kicks in. Ahead we hear thunder.

It certainly sounds like thunder. It’s actually the furious feet of Daughter charging from bedroom to bathroom to spare room with preparations for college akin to Kate Winslet grooming for the Oscars. Daughter charges downstairs at pace, looking like she’s just walked out of a salon; more make up than Toyah Wilcox and the third outfit of the morning. Late as usual, I scream 'Breakfast!' at her as she grabs a banana and apple from the bowl, strategically placed for just this purpose.

Son and I then have fifteen minutes of calm. We chew our breakfast in front of the news before he makes his pilgrimage to the ‘Altar of Hair Care’. Found in the ‘Communal Grooming Zone’ - home to all instruments required for our transformation into acceptable looking beings - this neutral area ensures we don’t venture in to the trepidatious boundaries of each other’s rooms. Teenager’s rooms are phenomena of Attenborough-esque fascination. The Teenager, to the uninitiated, appears clean and fragrant, yet they inhabit fetid, pungent bombsites. I decided years ago that ‘Bedrooms’ wasn’t a battle I was prepared to have. Instead, I stick a cursory head round to inspect once a week, negotiating waste reduction plans to ensure Teenagers inhabit council dump equivalents as opposed to Nagasaki. Unless there is an infestation of flies (old lunch box once forgotten), or if I am on a requisition to find an item of my clothing.

My belongings are desirable acquisitions for the Teenager. Daughter nicks suits for interviews, Son steals waterproof jacket for running. Noisy hysterics are induced when Daughter pilfers shampoo from my ensuite – a fact routinely discovered only once I have immersed myself under the lukewarm trickle of the asthmatic power shower. I dash, dripping, over the landing to retrieve aforementioned shampoo – a breach of Communal Area protocol causing looks of revulsion from Teenagers. Not dissimilar to the expression on my face when I last peered in to their bedrooms.

Eight o’clock, the house is calm and I have thirty minutes to suit, boot and go off to run my other mini empire – The Office. By nine I have my feet tucked under my desk where I parent a collection of elderly children otherwise known as Employees. Luckily eighteen years of familiarity and an employment contract, as opposed to blood ties, means there’s a civility in the office not necessarily applied at home. But the issues are all the same – someone’s desk looks like a bomb has hit it, another has an alarm going off on his PC, driving his fellow workers mad. Office Manager is best left to ease in to his day, rather than interacting before his caffeine reaches optimum level, and Marketing Assistant has cordoned off the bathroom whilst she applies another layer of foundation. I think I’ll have another coffee.