Mondays have got a bad name – mainly because of people like Bob Geldof who go on about how much they hate them. But for me, they are by far my happiest day of the working week. Today, like most other Mondays,I arrive in the office late, drink coffee, check emails and enjoy the peace.
The Sunday Telegraph Business & Money offices must boast one of the biggest square foot to employee ratios in London – and on a Monday morning I get it all to myself.
Paul Farrow is normally home sorting out a blocked drain or something, my boss is heading straight to lunch, and the City desk are not in. That leaves little old half-pint, fun-sized me, and about 450 square metres of office space to do what I like in – a quick naked run around the room, some personal calls from the editor's hot seat. OK, not really.
Today, I have lunch with Bradford & Bingley, which gives me a chance to tell them how stupid their awards are because none of us won any this year.I reserve the right to change my opinion as soon as I win one but I am guessing that I might not have helped my case.
Back home, I spend the evening watching Pirates of the Caribbean but can't pay much attention because of a pain in my side which has been bothering me since a drunken playfight two weeks ago.
By bedtime, I have convinced myself that I have got a terminal illness and decide to go to get it checked out in the morning. Note to self – must try for first person column in Sunday Tel, documenting my tragic premature demise.
A&E at St Georges Hospital in Tooting is uncharacteristically empty at 8am. My visit brightens up both the doctor's and nurse's morning, who enjoy themselves laughing when they realise that I have managed to crack a rib. Nothing I can do but wait for it to get better apparently but I am assured that I am not going to die. Note to self – ask Sunday Tel if they are interested in first-person column by short bloke with cracked rib.
Tuesday is a very different day in the office. With the Business lot back from their weekend, stress and politics instantly destroy the tranquility of our peaceful Money desk. Only one thing for it – escape.
After a quick lunch, which I successfully manage to move closer to my office at the last minute because it is too cold for a long walk, I head to the pub where we are celebrating Paul's imminent wedding. Comfy chairs, nice wine and Emma Simon's cute six-month-old baby all conspire to make me stay longer than intended.
And then it was Wednesday. Must do some work now. On a normal week, I would have already written one feature by this stage but pages are low and I get off the hook with just one for the week. Decide to opt for long-term care again, which is strangely my new favourite subject.
Thursday is quiet. Best amusement is watching Paul look increasingly bothered as he realizes that he is now within 72 hours of the big day. Am gutted to find that I have missed out (again) on The One Account's monthly MPC cash handout. Unexpectedly, however, Paul wins, which Liz reckons is a good omen for his wedding. Paul also finds out that his mum has broken her foot. I say that I think this is a bad omen for his wedding.
Friday is not worth writing about. Press day, lots of stress, no fun. Also found out that I'm out of a job on March 26 as Emma's coming back from maternity leave. Note to self -get a job.
Looking forward to my weekend, however, as I am heading off for my first canoe trip on white water. And then it will be Monday again.
James Daley is a personal finance reporter at the Sunday Telegraph