One's haste to precipitate the
weekend works a tricky deception
on a perfectly decent, sometimes
even harmless day called, Thurs.
I keep trying to reclaim the day
for a wholeness like any other's,
but anticipation sometimes chafes
against my plans. I know very well,
at such times, it's a sign that I
need to be back in Barbados for a
while, if only for its view of Al-
exandria. Time needs to calm down
for a moment, take a breath.
is what always makes me feel a press
of the stethoscope where only a meth-
odical tidying up is taking place.
One has this sense that the breath-
ing act is so obviously the matter
of highest interest, that we have
no time to waste to assay its con-
tinuance. Getting on with the week-
end, who can fret a grain of sand
or some other such alien intrusion,
given the highest likelihood of a
riotous mess, if all goes smoothly?
Now is the time for tending to the
intake valves and tuning the exhaust.
Let Monday's maid look after the debris.
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