Mondays

No matter how much I love my job, getting out of bed on Monday mornings is near impossible.
There I am, lying in bed, all naked, soft bed sheets all around me... Gorgeous. If I'm lucky, there might even be a man there with me. I'm talking really lucky, here...

However, tear myself away from the soft furnishings I do, and before I know it I'm in the office with the whirlwind of another week ahead of me.
All weeks start the same way. I greet Sarah at her desk, she presents me with the black coffee she bought on her way in, and hands me my schedule for the morning. It doesn't matter that I know it all already, it's nice to have it confirmed by someone as competent as Sarah. I go to my desk, sit down and greet Alex. Alex regales me with stories of his exciting weekends, asks briefly after Simon and Skye, and I check my emails. Invariably there is one from a client saying nothing useful but aptly demonstrating the pressure they are under. I respond to such emails with meaningless reassuring words, and turn my attention to the tasks ahead.
This morning I have a meeting with a chap desperately trying to market his knew cleaning 'innovation', a feat that we have already advised is futile, but that he will not drop. After that, I have a free day to catch up on work, and I have a piece of artwork for a magazine advert with a week's deadline.
Have I mentioned that I love my job? For one hour of placating boring people I get to spend seven drawing. Not to mention that I am exceptionally well-paid. Or that being a gay male in a job much oriented to clothes designers I am exceptionally well-clad.

So, it's Monday, I'm sitting at my drawing slope, filling out what - if I do say so myself - are the most magnificent pair of eyes, and except for the agonising pain in my right leg, I couldn't be happier.