The Monday Morning Blues is upon me, once again. Looking down the road, as far as the eye can see, the constant stream of moving cars flows like a procession at a state funeral. Intermittent flashes of red light dance and prance about majestically as brake lights are called into action: the traffic lights are shouting stop!
To the right, a pastoral event unfolds: Jersey cows munching on brown grass; flowerbeds blowing in the gentle twilight breeze; a quintessential rural scene meets and greets my eye. A mob of horses, still in a state of reverie after their evening slumber, is lying in a field; slowly they rise, looking skyward at the gothic spectacle above, as fluffy grey clouds spread out to all four corners of the sky, like a duvet suffocating a mattress.
Alas, this rural reverie doesn’t last, as my gaze falls upon a metallic-grey phallic-like symbol that towers into the air: the imperative commands: Stop! Danger! High voltage! remind me that this is suburbia. The escalator of cars is moving again – climbing out of the valley and onto higher ground. As I glance at the angst on the drivers’ faces, I realise that we are brothers and sisters in arms; yes, we are all suffering from the same old Monday Morning Blues.