Andy Hawthorne

Meet Arthur Harris, I man who doesn’t like Mondays…

Arthur Harris sat in his armchair, which was currently moulting horsehair and dust. The clock on the wall didn’t just tick; it went tick-tock-doom, tick-tock-doom. It was Sunday night—the soggy, grey crust of the week. Monday was already lurking in the hallway, wearing hobnailed boots and carrying a briefcase full of damp misery and filing cabinets.

“I won’t have it,” Arthur muttered into his lukewarm coffee, which had developed a skin so thick he could have tanned it for a pair of gloves. “I simply won’t have Monday. It’s too tall, it’s far too loud, and it smells of wet wool.”

He stood up, his knees making a sound like two skeletons fighting over a bag of crisps. He approached the calendar hanging on the floral wallpaper. There it was: Monday the 16th. A day clearly invented by a man who hated sunshine and toast.

“Right then,” said Arthur, seizing the cardboard destiny. “If I turn you around…”

He grabbed the calendar and gave it a violent, clockwise heave. A small cloud of dust—possibly 1954’s dust—erupted into the room. He flipped the pages back with the desperation of a man trying to reverse a falling piano. He reached the previous page. Saturday. The glorious, golden, jam-scented Saturday.

“There!” he cried, pointing a triumphant finger. “The space-time continuum has been defeated by a bit of card and a bent drawing pin!”

Suddenly, the room felt lighter. The kettle started whistling a jaunty tune, despite not being on the stove. Arthur sat back down, smugness radiating from his slippers. If it was Saturday, he didn’t have to go to the office to count holes in digestive biscuits. He could stay right here and watch the curtains grow.

Outside, a crow looked through the window.

“It’s Monday tomorrow, you know,” the crow seemed to say with its cawing.

“Liar!” Arthur shouted, throwing a knitted tea-cosy at the glass. “It’s Saturday! I’ve checked the official paperwork! Go away before I report you to the Ministry of Time!”

He closed his eyes, content. Somewhere, a clock struck thirteen, and a small man in a bowler hat fell out of the wardrobe, but Arthur didn’t care. Monday was officially cancelled due to a lack of interest and a bit of creative spinning. He drifted off to sleep, dreaming of a world where Tuesday was merely a rumour started by the French.