Thursday is a ‘mild-looking mortal, with a fair, pointed beard and faint, yellow hair’ who is later clad in a green raiment spotted with sun, stars and moon.
So quite a pretty day.
I am, of course, referring to Gabriel Syme, the eponymous hero (of sorts) of Gilbert Keith Chesterton’s nightmare ‘The Man who was Thursday’. I finished it earlier this week, and it was a delight from beginning to end. An absurd farce on one hand, occasionally masquerading as parody or satire or homily on human nature, and utterly exciting throughout.
I think it would make a great film, particularly in the hands of a trashy director (Michael Bay or Jerry Bruckheimer, perhaps) with a huge budget but an absolute dedication to being faithful to the source material.
It’s unlikely it would work out as I envisage it.
Anyway, when you say Thursday, even on a Thursday, that’s what I think right now. I picture a lone policeman battling alone against anarchists, with nothing but his unswerving sense of honour and a sword cane to help him.
And the sense of an inevitable grand joke being unfurled around you in an absurd and wonderful manner.
Today has the feeling of an absurd joke unfurling around me. A late night (caused by a well known John Hughes sequel), combined with an early start (caused by an earth shattering headache, which still lingers despite a torrent of pills) and an incredibly long working day (from which I am skiving right now in order to write this) are all waging war upon me, like an army of black masked anarchists.
Yet it remains colourful. I’m surprisingly untired (the drugs?) surprisingly chipper (constantly whinging, but that’s no indicator in a Brit).
And my cardigan is red. Which cheers me occasionally.
On the fourth day (a Thursday to some), some people’s god created the sun and the moon. I don’t know how they managed without it, but then, that’s why I take more objective truths for my history.
But anyway, that’s the story, Thursday should be white and gold maybe, or we return to a theory of multi-colouredness. For it will have been that day, with the creation of our great orbific sources of light, that bought colour into the world.
Oh frabjous day. I say.
Thursday often feels like the weekend, with Friday a mere formality. So Thursday is the colour of glad rags and party dresses, maybe.
When people ask me if I have a favourite colour, I normally nominate purple. I think it shines and bursts and radiates something. Not just royalty, as the traditionalists would have it, but something deeper and richer and more pleasant.
But then, it’s nothing without the others.
That’s the thing with these chromatic questions, they ask the impossible, not in the way one might think. They are not wholly absurd.
But they ask me to pick one pleasure (or colour) out from the rest.
And I refuse.
Let all colours play freely each day.
Illustration by Adam.