“Blessed are the merciful: for they shall receive mercy.” -Matthew 5:7

Age - 20 something
Accessories - The ability to accessorize

Monday. Fuck. The alarm comes to life and I'm thrown midway into a song by some German songstress named Nena. She's screeching banshee style about "99 Red Balloons" floating through the sky, with no regard for my fragile Monday morning state of mind.

Monday. How bad do I need that first long black of the day?

Monday. Instantly I know I'm doomed to spend the rest of the day humming a song that I don't know the words to. I'll walk the corridors at work, la la la-ing lyrics. I'll be loitering in the kitchen spooning granules of coffee into my cup and listening to snatches of water cooler conversation..red red red. The clock will have just ticked past 2-15 P.M., I'll be taking an afternoon toilet break, relieving myself at the urinal and hoping that I don't shake off on my shoes.balloons balloons balloons.

Monday. 8.00 A.M. has just appeared on the digital clock radio and I'm lying there looking at the ceiling and wondering how a one hit wonder like "99 Red Balloons" ever ended up on a self proclaimed alternative radio station.


Monday. Ten minutes later I'm still in bed thinking about it, and realizing that that there is no way I'm going to arrive at work at the prescribed punch-in time of 9 A.M. I blame Nena for making me think about all of the above, and as a result, making me late.

Monday. Monday almost always slides by at a super quick pace due to the consumer frenzy that is generated by a Saturday and Sunday of VISA card abuse. I buckle in for the ride, and continue the development of arthritis in my mouse click finger from one too many links pursued. Only another eight or so hours to go.

Monday. Before I know it, it's 5-30 P.M., and it's time to rinse the coffee cup clean and anticipate the sound of the hometime bell (which in this case is my desktop doing the final outro speech from "Trainspotting") that will signal it's time for the children to flee the compound. I'll head homeward for milk and chocolate biscuits while watching re-runs of Gilligan's Island and entering into one of the most contentious debates of recent times that involves whether you'd prefer Ginger or Mary-Anne as the future mother of your children.

Monday. Ten minutes and a short walk later, I'm standing on a windy train platform waiting for the 5-37 P.M. that will take me home to shave, bathe, eat, enter into email correspondence and indulge in a generally mind numbing relaxation period on the couch, that will involve surfing forty plus TV channels. At this hour you'd expect the train to be semi-full (maybe this is not the case due to the fact that I've made the extra effort to battle the light rain and head towards the last carriage), but I only have a few companions for my short journey. The first thing I notice is the distinctive scent of stale alcohol, week old socks and cigarettes that you encounter when walking into a bar at an early hour of virtually any morning. A half pissed gent in his rough fifties is spreading the contents of his bag over the seat in front of him while clutching a half empty lager bottle in his right hand, and for some reason I'm thinking whether what's inside is alcohol or really a urine sample that he's taking to the local lab for analysis on his damaged liver. The bag contains a selection of old clothes and even older looking newspapers, and on any other day it would probably cause me to stare in an attempt to find some relevance, but I'm tired after a long day, and all I want, is to sit back, take my glasses off and hum German tunes to myself. Within a minute I'm there, lost in visions of "99 Red Balloons" floating through the sky.

Monday. My sense of Dali Lama-esque peace is interrupted by a commuter entering at the next stop. I'll never understand why some people feel compelled to enter train carriages shouting into their mobile phones as if the person at the other end is a semi-deaf mute. She of the mobile phone shouting variety is the picture of Americanized loveliness in her faded ass hugging hipsters, cheap shoes, mid riff jacket that partially hides a pair of exceptionally firm breasts (that are in turn barely covered by a T-shirt with the message "Bread Not Bombs" scrawled on the front in that D.I.Y. style you see so often these days), fake tan, porno bleached blonde locks, the grand daddy of all diver's watches is wrapped around her wrist in a fashionable shade of purple and a pair Charlie's Angels inspired sunglasses, that I have grown to hate passionately, completes the look that is somewhere between fashion victim and wannabe Britney Spears music video extra.

Monday. She's disturbed me and I want to grab her phone and throw it out the door and give her a shrug of the shoulders in a manner that suggests "I have no idea why I just did that." I feel compelled to turn around and put my finger to my lips and emit a long drawn-out "ssssshhhhhhhhhhhh" like I'm seated in the cinema and some dick-head behind me won't shut up (yes I know they were the "COMING ATTRACTIONS," but I have a very maniacal attitude towards cinema silence). I want to do so many things, but as I've already stated, I'm tired, in a Monday funk, and just couldn't be bothered with the whole situation.

Monday. She sits in the same row as me and continues to talk and namedrop while the voyeur in me half listens to both her and my mental rendition of "99 Red Balloons." " ...my manager said to me.....I'd like you to come on over....France....translating.....he bought me a huge fish aquarium.....I haven't had a holiday for......he stained my wood floors with....going to a lot of effort for me, and .....need it right now.....la la la...99 red balloons." Shut the fuck up.

Monday. Who cares about your trendy wooden floors that have been stained just that right shade of brown, so that they will match your new toenail polish colour? Who cares about your huge fish tank and its three brightly coloured occupants? Who cares whether my next door neighbour is busy in his basement making bread or bombs? The only thing I care about right now are those "99 Red Balloons" and whether the vision splendid seated within earshot of me, has gone the full Los Angeles accessory tilt and had breast augmentation.

Monday. Three hours later I'm bathed and shaved.

Monday. The steamer steamed, the kettle boiled and my stomach is full.

Monday. The email's are answered and I've just done a "www" search and found the complete lyrics to "99 Red Balloons." I'm expecting something comparable in content and stupidity to that catchy "Praise Mayonnaise" jingle, but once I get to reading, I begin to see the method within this 80's pop inspired madness and realize that it's actually an anti-nuclear war song. 99 Red balloons' message isn't so empty anymore.

Monday. I'm reading the last section and trying to reflect on how far we've come as a race since the 1980's: "99 dreams I have had / In every one a red balloon / It's all over and I'm standing pretty / In this dust that was a city / If I could find a souvenir / Just to prove the world was here... / And here is a red balloon / I think of you and let it go". And suddenly I'm no longer thinking about silicone breasts, World Trade Center terrorism, fake tan, pretentious people or an intoxicated man's sense of sartorial splendor. I'm thinking, "It's almost over." It's almost all over. It's almost Tuesday.

Post Script September 11, 2001