Richard Baum

The weekend has vanished into the distance like an idiot driving a Nova with a body kit down the high street at 55mph.

Several hours of it was spent leafleting in Prestwich and Whitefield, interspersed with trips to see Manchester City and to fritter away money on things in IKEA which at the time I falsely believed would cure the vacant emptiness gnawing away at my soul.

Apparently today is “Blue Monday.” This is a term coined by scientists to describe the most depressing day of the year, when post-Christmas mundanity, pre-pay day skintness, and the howling wetness of the British weather conspire to make us all wish we’d never been born.

My own internal bleakness was only exacerbated by the “Blue Monday” story, when I discovered it was nothing to do with either the New Order song of the same name, or anything that I would traditionally describe as “blue,” like a Russell Brand DVD. Either of those two things would have made today more bearable, but sadly it was to do with science which, like women and the appeal of Midsomer Murders, I have never been able to fathom.

I must say though that the thought of making my usual automaton journey into the office this morning was an even less appealing prospect than normal today. Maybe it’s a twenty-first century phenomenon, only afflicting people born into a world of text messages and Playstation 3’s, but I find myself constantly depressed by the bewildering array of life-choices flashing before me like great neon invitations to fulfilment and excitement that I am forced repeatedly to decline. They are all so head-spinningly overwhelming and joyously fabulous that the fact that I can only make one of them at a time makes me want to curl into a ball and make miaowing noises quietly until I’m taken away somewhere warm and soft.

People had it easy hundreds of years ago. Fair enough there was slavery and typhoid and press-ganging. But you worked on the farm and then you died, and everything in between was taken care of. There wasn’t temptation around every corner and you didn’t feel terrible not going to the Whitsunday Islands because you’d rather save up a deposit for the conservatory instead. The peasants of yore didn’t have the Guardian culture section or the programme for the Royal Exchange burned onto their retinas as a permanent reminder that no matter how many films, plays and books they devour, there are still twenty thousand more not seen. And, on Blue Monday, there’s something to be said for that.

So this morning I find myself back at my desk and contemplating the many roads not taken, and trying not to think about the road actually taken which has led me to stare at a computer screen and tap things into it for a living, rather than working outside or in Botswana or inventing something so spectacular and innovative that I need never work anywhere ever again.

It’s not all bad though. There’s a meeting of the Bury Liberal Democrat Council group on Wednesday, where the group gets together and talks about the issues affecting the community in preparation for the rounds of meetings ahead. Also this week, I have to start giving serious thought to writing the new St Mary’s Focus, which will be thumping down onto doormats across the ward by the end of the month.

And hopefully at some point I will snap out of my pointless ponderings and start counting my blessings. It would distract me from thinking about the dull stuff, if nothing else. And even if that doesn’t work, by the time I figure it out it’ll be Thursday and there’ll be a whole new weekend to think about again.

Rick