Being Mr. Kenny

Today as I dragged myself to work my mind wandered to the concept of national days. We have a national day for everything, it seems. Grandparents, back pain, breast cancer, the Queen’s birthday (twice). We even celebrate when the banks take a break — presumably these people must be so hard working that when they stop it’s so momentous an occasion that the nation pays its respects. (I must admit I have never found this to be the case: they’re never open when I’m free and they shut early on a Wednesday. To quote so many poor quality stand up comedians: “What’s that about?”)

Anyway, it occurred to me that we pause to remember all kinds of griefs in the calendar. World Wars, this tragedy, that tragedy etc. But we don’t pause to remember that most terrible form of grief that all of us experience.

I’m speaking, of course, about having to get out of bed in the morning. What an awful way to start the day! Who was it who decided that every single day of our entire lives (unless we are in a coma) would begin with getting out of bed. Surely, days should start with something wonderfully pleasant. What about sunrise, I hear you cry. Well they’re nice I suppose, but don’t you have to get out of bed to witness them?

So therefore I suppose national Mourning Morning. This would be where for the whole morning everyone sat around feeling sorry for themselves, rubbing their eyes, yawning and generally not being very productive. Sounds a lot like your average working day, doesn’t it? The only difference here would be that it would have a proper name (not just ‘laziness’) and it would be marked on people’s calendars. And the Prime Minister would make a speech or something.

“Today we remember the hard work and dedication of everyone who had to get out bed this morning. Bloody good show, the lot of you. I’m off to drink some brandy with the Queen and Prince Philip now, so … goodbye!”