Many moons ago my child, when I was just a wee young thing….I would sign my name in the book as I arrived at work at the bank, where I was am employee, every working day. On one strange day, I was called into the under manager's office. [translation = always a bad sign] He displayed the 'sign in book' because this was in the days before the 'clock in' machine. [translation = or possibly something more to do with snobbery, the 'trade' v. 'profession' debate.]
“Well McEwen!” he said in a fatherly tone. “What do you have to say about this?” He riffled the pages and pointed to my signatures. Week upon week, there is was, my own personal scribble. I sought clues. None were forthcoming.
He prompted, “don't you see?”
“Er, I'm not on time every day?' I squeaked.
He snapped the volume closed and sighed,
“what is it about Wednesdays?”
“I don't know? What is it about Wednesdays?”
“Every Wednesday you have a squiggle.”
“This is not your signature, just a squiggle.
Every Wednesday for nearly a year. What is it about Wednesdays?” [translation = what exactly preceded the observed event? N.B. See how much I have advanced since those days of youth?]
I didn't know then, I don't know now. I suspect it's something to do with circadian rhythms or some other phsychobabbledom.
Today nearly thirty years later I am struck by a curious thought. That bank manager was a Brit, three decades ago? What kind of a bank manager was he? A rare breed. Someone sufficiently in tune with his employees, to even notice such a detail in the first place.
I notice traffic on the web.
Alerts are quiet.
What do you do on a Wednesday?
Not the 'get into gear Monday' nor the 'wind down Friday.'
Think about it? What is it about Wednesday? I can see the evidence of my own eyes. What did you do today? How did you feel? What makes Wednesday different from Tuesday or Thursday? Is Wednesday the forgotten day? Is your battery flat?
Is it in limbo?
Don't ask me.
I have no answers. Only questions.