Do you ever get the Sunday blues? That sick, sick sense that you’d rather eat your own toes than crawl into work on the Northern line? That overwhelming sense of depression and monotony when you think about your Monday morning ritual: take three hours to get into work, answer 3829 questions from your colleagues about how your weekend was, duly ask how their weekends were (not because you’re remotely interested, but because it’s polite), make a coffee strong enough to kill someone – possibly yourself – and then dick around with emails for a bit to ‘ease yourself’ into the week?
Well, I don’t get the blues. Sorry. I know it’s smug, but I don’t because my job is the actual best. Today, for instance, I had my hair and make-up did, heaved myself into *quite* a small Roland Mouret dress and Charlotte Olympia heels, then larked about in a trendy East London studio all morning to illustrate a piece I’ve written.
I was a bit tired at the end of all this though. Crucifying work, modelling.