I hate Mondays. On Tuesday, more. On Monday, in fact, when playing the hated alarm clock, get up and, with resignation, I'm preparing to go to the office. But what, shortly after, is sitting in front of a computer, not me. is an automaton. A being without conscience. Will. A plant with the opposable thumb. A zombie with the earbuds in your ears. Ectoplasm burdened with Excel and Microsoft Project. On Tuesday, however, is another history. On Tuesday, is the awakening in the Buddhist sense. On Tuesday, marks the veil of Maya. On Tuesday, there is awareness . It's only Tuesday. I have to climb mountains of mail, browse projects abysmal, to endure torrential meeting. And two years I put the curtains in the room , dammit! Then one wonders why people take drugs or watch 'Men and women'. Take last Tuesday . One as many others. The sound of 'Sunday Morning' Maroon 5 reminds me of three things: one, that is not Sunday morning, because last time I got up Sunday morning was when I they removed the appendix in which I was very fond of and believe me, it was a long time ago, and two, that the waves that I spupazzavo, alas, it was just a dream , three, that it is time to change alarm. On Monday, when I rise, are destroyed. On Tuesday, in general, needs a defibrillator . The usual ten minutes to find the courage to stand up. The slippers are always a mystery in my house. One is under the piano, the other is reported missing. Evacuation of the bladder and morning ablution being always careful to avoid the mirror on the wall that never lies. Step refreshment in the kitchen, brushed incisors and canines and forth, ready to be by ennobling activity that requires dedication, commitment and a certain amount of talent. No, not sex . Before leaving, I take the shirts lying abandoned in the basket of dirty clothes for the past more than a month. Mission laundry. The laundry is run by two little old ladies Zurich suffering, I suppose, from advanced dementia. By. Dlin dlon! The bell for a few seconds automatically reactivate my dormant neurons. "Grüezi"
For the uninitiated, this is the typical greeting in Swiss German. Their guttural 'Hello'. To pronounce it perfectly, we must first smoke a few cigarettes, expectorate, and then rush out with the word. It is not easy believe me. Spare the salute and support the shirts on the counter. The lady bends dangerously and with the help of an abacus began to count. Then he looks at me.
"Foif," declaims vehemently - I think you write FUF, or something like that. I look at myself. Of terror is painted on my face.
"Foif?"
"Ja. Foif.
Oh well ', so if we have made, I have no objection - the latest in the office, I find his' foif' would be 'Funf' in Switzerland German. Five. At present, however, are undecided whether this is an insult or a kind of mantra Swiss apotropaic . Go ahead. The lady, more curve starts to write a note.
"Frittig," and he must scream, because it is so now that curve, folded on itself, writes stuck in the basket under the counter. No, look, fried at this time I find it rather indigestible. Maybe later. But she is adamant. "Frittig" . Just a bite, they are also in a hurry. "Frittig." But what is the supercazzola premature? Defeated, slurred speech a 'Ja' unconvinced - Later, in the office, I find his 'Frittig' (do you spell 'Fritig') would be the 'Freitag' in Swiss German. Friday. Nothing fried. bad.
The lady met, continues in its monosyllabic interrogation.
"Der name?"
Ah, this is easy, this is the know! I press the button.
"R. .... erg"
The lady drops the pen and you pull up. No, do not do it! On its face that appears in the morning in Zurich is impossible to see. As in Milan. A smile . No, no, I already understood. Do not do that, please. Gradually, changes from a smile to laughter that causes dentures to earthquakes and a shambles epileptic breast Juno. I know it is going to say, but do not say. Not this time. Please! But she, like molten lava dripping from the slopes of an erupting volcano, is unstoppable. So I prepare.
"Hahaha! R. ..... erg?! R. ..... erg?! Restaurant wie das hier in der Nähe, R. .... org !!!". As the restaurant nearby, R. .... org. "Wussten Sie?". Did you know? No. How could I
. It will only be the tenth time I repeated the same joke and all the alcohol drunk in the last twenty years my has some memory leak. As my parents have tried, with little success, to give me that little bit of education you need to go out to dinner and to avoid, including a plate of spaghetti and a cut in the blood, insert your fingers into the case and stick to the inner product Gross under the chair, laughing in my turn and I thank arterislerotica for donatami comic gem. But I love my post because I can work on the imagination and write what they want. So, I laugh, then I extract a shovel and gave it strikes the teeth , resulting in a curious reharmonization of 'Fra Martino bell'. Greetings and after seeing the bus to reach the stop, snap like a sprinter in effect of cannabis and I collapsed, then, unarmed, in the bottom row of seats.
Be '? Nothing, it's Monday. And with all due respect to David Hume, I would say that it is very likely that tomorrow will be Tuesday. Always before I fall on his head a meteorite, which does not mean that in any case, tomorrow is Tuesday and, at most, I'll be fifteen centimeters high and I have a lot of trouble to make my wardrobe. So, what can I say? of patients, which will soon be back Frittig . Good week to all!
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