I woke up. i had a fuzzy feeling somewhere between my ears. my eyes and nose had a smothered feeling and my ears themselves felt like they were underwater. Today was a tuesday. i never liked tuesdays. knowing it was such a long way from the weekend felt depressing, dampening. damp. the word drifted around in my state of half consciousness. the sluggish “mp” at the end. it didn’t sound like a nice word. it wasn’t a nice word. it wasn’t a nice thing. Being dry was great, soaking wet oddly exciting but damp was always just miserable. that feeling of mildew and being dry at the same time wet. i looked out the window. damp. the outside world was just as miserable as the tuesday it inhabited. it was spitting. it was a slow half hearted blatter of spit. like the clouds couldn’t even summon the enrgy to fall apart properly. the dead autumn leaves clogged the gutters, lapping up the damp like tissue paper. damp. tuesdays. i put on my raincoat.

outside the miserable, damp, tuesday was like its namesake; miserable and damp. the leaves had been trodden on and blown around into a sagging malformed paste whilst all remaining completely unblemished. they were like mud, without any fun. dead mud. tuesday mud. the slipped when you trod on them and stuck when you moved on. plastered all the way across the sole of my green wellington boots. i turned into the corner shop. the leaves came off and drew wet watery question marks on the industrial tiles. or at least i think thats what they are. that flooring in corner shops. its probably linonium. the light reflected easily off them in the eletric corner shop glare of the neon tubes childishly stapled to the ceiling, held up with duct tape and hope. i picked up a packet of cornflakes and some tins of tomato soup. my fingers left damp prints on the cardboard. i hated that. how theres a nice dry object you really want in front of you but you have we hands, so itl get wet if you try to pick it up. you have great experience in this, but you try to pick it up anyway and inevitably it is ruined. especially with tissues. especially especially with toilet paper after you come out of the sea any you try to use the toilets up by the beach cafe but it rips and tears. you keep trying to get a dry piece but your hand just seem to emit water until you just run out of paper and then…i stopped thinking about that. there was no way i could ever go back to that part of france ever again. i think theres a restraining order of 30km. the soup tins wern’t so bad off though. the flimsy laminated paper just came straight off, as it always did, leaving me with a crumpled soup tin label advertising other flavours in their range whilst the tin itself hit the floor with a damp tuesday-ish flump.i picked it up and continued my epic journey to the frozen foods section. whilst searching for a suitably cardiac-arrest inducing burger sufficient for my misconception of the concept of dinner, my cornfalke boz happily sapped up the moisture on bith the inside and the outside of the glass (But not necessarily in that order). i paid the bored-sh**tless cashier and headed home. cornflakes.food.money.shop.damp.tuesday.