Thank You, Mama Cass.  

By Steve Myers 

I hated Mondays. Monday, Monday as the song goes. Saturday and Sunday, free to do what you like, and then the horrible realisation that Monday’s due and it’s back to the usual daily grudge and grind. I was successful, but I wasn’t doing anything worthy. I kept buying books promising me extra time: a 60/40 life/work split– but once I’d read them I’d lost time anyway, so the authors were the only ones benefiting. I just lost a few non-work hours along with my money. 

            Another bloody Monday. It started out the same. Waking up at six, remembering what lay ahead and wanting to crawl back under the duvet. A shower and the usual ablutions; trying to scrub my face awake, so that I’d look vaguely pleased on reaching my desk. Then grab the white shirt, the inoffensive tie, greyish suit and polished lace-ups. Dress to impress I’d been told. That’s probably the reason that my underwear was ridiculous, with pictures of Rottweilers and arrows pointing at my crotch. It was my little unseen rebellion. 

            The Tube: another daily experience I wouldn’t envy anyone. I don’t know why I bothered ironing, given that I usually ended up being packed in so close to strangers we had the closest thing to a fully clothed orgy going on. Exiting the train involved running a briefcase-wielding gauntlet. They always tell you to ‘move right down inside the train’; what they don’t say is that that means you have as much chance of getting out before the doors close as you do of winning the Lotto.  

***** 

            I’m an accountant, by the way, in case you want to do your own mini-exorcism: hated but necessary. Vital when the calendar year hits the financial one, but it was always figures not people; just maths and deciphering receipts, explaining why some couldn’t be put through, because my clients weren’t politicians who could get away with anything. 

            The flak I got was tremendous. I was careful to ensure that people only paid what they needed to pay, but some of them tried to put early-bought Christmas presents through, fillet steak – one even tried to charge for his son’s school fees, figuring that he was raising the next generation of successful businessmen. They seemed to think that they could disguise anything within their taxes or company. If I said no, I was treated like someone who’s just held their first-born child for ransom. 

            I don’t know why it was that particular Monday. I didn’t plan anything; it was just another start to the week. Then I got to the top of the stairs, outside the station and I froze. I did the one thing I hate in others: I stopped dead at the entrance, so people had to work their way around me. I looked down at my briefcase, which was full of important papers. And it struck me. How can paper really be important? Why was I doing this? It was my job and I’d done it for years; it kept me in food, suits and holidays that were too short, but I’d never really questioned it before. 

            What was better about figures than people? Surely the worth is the person, not the wallet. I guess it depends what you call worth. I couldn’t even estimate the number of spreadsheets I’d created in my lifetime – people condensed into a set of numbers. I’d definitely helped and I knew I was appreciated, but I suddenly felt like all I’d done was act as a standby in case people needed help changing a duvet cover. I hadn’t invented a cure for cancer, set up a charity, spent time looking after abused kids, teaching – anything like that. 

            There’s that word that nobody uses, but is the longest one in the vocabulary, barring medical terms. It’s something like ‘floccinaucinihilipilification’. It’s the act of valuing something as worthless and I don’t know anyone who’s ever used it. Don’t even know if there’s a verb version. But that Monday morning at 7.45am, I just stood there, ‘floccinauing’ and ‘cinihilipificating’ myself. What was I doing trapped in a suit on a hot day? Why spend all my time staring at a computer when there was a world I could be seeing for real? Where had the plans for a wife and kids gone? I was coasting through life; I’d never really thought what the alternatives might be. I’d assumed I’d be in this job forever, find a ‘dutiful’ wife and do all the normal stuff that you’re supposed to. I’d already done the degree, the job, the house and car. I had a healthy bank account but nobody to share it with. Friends were mostly really acquaintances. 

            There was a litterbin opposite the station. And I didn’t think twice – I chucked in my briefcase, took the tie off and threw that in as well. Next came the suit, shirt and polished shoes. I tucked my wallet down the front of my boxers and my iPod into my sock and that was it. I didn’t even think about the fact I was standing in the street dressed in black socks and a pair of overpadded underpants that exclaimed: ‘If You Can’t Read This – You’re Not Close Enough’. I’ve no idea what people thought. They probably assumed I was just one more London nutter. It was a Monday, but it was my last in a suit.  

***** 

            I went into work to put in my notice, in my underwear, with the wallet bulge. I had to borrow a sheet of paper and a pen to write it out. There were raised eyebrows and a comment or two (particularly from Mickey, our token gay, who said he’d be willing to get closer), but otherwise I cleared my desk and walked out. Some of the staff actually gave me an ovation. I don’t know why it was that particular day; I don’t know why I chose to do what I did; I never even considered that if it had been a colder day I might not have gone through with it. Thank goodness it was summer. 

            I put up with a lot of odd looks that day. I was even offered money; I think some people thought I was on a sponsored stupidity day. Others laughed at me and I think there were a fair few who thought I was drunk or insane, or both. When I arrived home, I waved to Mrs Prigg next door, who was hovering like she always did. I’m sure she couldn’t wait to go inside and phone her ‘parishioners’. I then took a good look around. It was a big house, worth quite a lot, even in today’s climate. The suits went to Oxfam, the paperwork into the shredder and the shredder to a friend. I had a passport, paid off the credit cards, kept one for emergencies, took enough money out to keep me going and thought about where I went from there. 

            I’m now in a small village on an island off the coast of Africa. They don’t need spreadsheets, accountants or computers. But they do need help. I did miss it all for a while, but the thrill of meeting actual people and trying to make a difference made me realise how unimportant the ‘important’ things are. 

            The wife is an ongoing process. I have a friend who I’m hoping will become more. She’s beautiful, courageous and to me she shines. She thinks I’m a bit of a of a dork, but I’m working on it. 

            Children I have hundreds of – not mine. Abandoned, not wanted, orphaned, whatever. They need me and I need them. I don’t know who gets most out of the relationship. It’s strange going through life accepting what your worth isn’t, without realising how much you can offer. 

            It’s my teaching day today. Basic stuff – just maths and English; maybe a bit of art. They lap it up – they want to learn; they’re not bothered about the latest trainers or Heat magazine. The look on their faces just make it all worthwhile.             

            I went from a normal Monday at Mile End to different one a continent away. I guess that’s what’s so good about life: you can wake up one day and realise you’re not where you want to be – and you can do something about it. 

            I don’t have Mondays any more. Half the time I don’t even know what day it is. I still listen on my portable CD to Mama Cass. She had it right. 

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Judges comments: Well done to Steve Myers. This is an interesting idea, but I think you needed to mention the name of Mama Cass and the portable CD player earlier in the story. Not all readers would get the point.