Monday? Just Another Biscuit Day

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When you’re in your eighties and living in a nursing home, every day blends into the next like a continuous loop of the same, familiar routine. Monday? Just another day on the calendar, not the dreaded start of a hectic working week. In fact, I can barely tell Monday from Thursday, or Sunday for that matter. Every day is a mix of tea, toast, and telly, with a spot of bingo if you're feeling wild.

Back in the day, Mondays were a beast. The weekend would fly by, and before you knew it, that infernal alarm would drag you back to reality. But now, without the demands of work or the rush of life, Monday is just another chance to see which biscuits they’re serving with tea.

The days drift by in a gentle haze of routine. Breakfast is always at eight, lunch at twelve, and supper at five. The news comes on, but does it really matter which day it is when the headlines seem to repeat themselves? Time becomes a gentle companion rather than a taskmaster.

Sure, the carers might remind you it’s Monday, but who’s keeping track? To me, it’s just the day I might win an extra biscuit in bingo or catch up with Mrs. Wilkins about her grandkids. In retirement, especially in a nursing home, the days have a comforting sameness to them.

So, while the rest of the world moans about Monday, I’m perfectly content to let the days roll on, one just like the other. After all, every day is a good day when there’s no rush to be anywhere but here.