"All right," said Ford, "I'll try to explain. How long have we known each other?"
"How long?" Arthur thought. "Er, about five years, maybe six," he said. "Most of it seemed to make some sense at the time."
"All right," said Ford. "How would you react if I said that I'm not from Guildford after all, but from a small planet somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse?"
Arthur shrugged in a so-so sort of way.
"I don't know," he said, taking a pull of beer. "Why--do you think it's the sort of thing you're likely to say?"
Ford gave up. It really wasn't worth bothering at the moment, what with the world being about to end. He just said, "Drink up."
He added perfectly factually, "The world's about to end."
Arthur gave the rest of the pub another wan smile. The rest of the pub frowned at him. A man waved at him to stop smiling at them and mind his own business.
"This must be Thursday," said Arthur, musing to himself, sinking low over his beer. "I never could get the hang of Thursdays."
There you have Arthur's explanation for the events of the day--it's Thursday. That's why bulldozers are sitting outside his house, waiting to demolish it. And why Ford Prefect somehow convinced Mr. Prosser, the man in charge of demolishing Arthur's house, to lie down in the mud for Arthur. And why Ford is telling him that the world is about to end. It's Thursday.
I've never had a problem with Thursdays. For some reason, the day that's always bothered me is Sunday. I've never gotten the hang of them. They've always made me a little sad. Maybe it's the sound of church bells tolling. They've always struck me as a little mournful. Maybe it's the end of the weekend, start of a new week--work, school, late nights, early mornings, never enough time to get everything done. Or maybe something happened to me as a kid, some weird Sunday trauma that I'm still repressing.
Whatever the reason, Sundays fill me with angst.
This Sunday, I'm still battling the Florida cold/bronchitis/cough. My chest hurts, My eyes water. My DayQuil has worn off. I want to take a nap. Woke up this morning with my right eye crusted over with some kind of snot. (My eye isn't pink, and, once I washed off the crust, I haven't had any other problems with it today.) I've decided to go to my doctor tomorrow. I've got work and teaching. On Thursday, I'm conducting a poetry workshop. Next Saturday, I've got a show in Calumet. I have to get better. Soon.
Yes, I know I sound a little like I'm from a planet in the vicinity of Betelgeuse. That's what Sundays do to me. They make me think and obsess over everything I have to do in the coming week. Monday, work and go to the doctor. Tuesday, work and meet with a friend and get better. Wednesday, work and teach. Thursday, work and run poetry workshop. Friday, work and travel to Calumet for rehearsal at 5 p.m.. Saturday, rehearse and perform in show. Sunday, return home and host my book club and start freaking out about the following week.
Now, I've just come back from a ten-day vacation in Florida, which was wonderful and full of joy. So, I'm not going to say that I need a vacation. I'm simply going to say that I'd like about 15 more hours in every day. Then I could get everything done that I need to do, take a nap, and go see a movie or something.
Marty is one tired saint. Don't pray to him. His prayer answering machine is full.
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