Why I’ve Got The Hump With Wednesdays

Why I’ve got the hump with Wednesdays

Okay, prepare yourselves. I’m a little bit damp. It’s my own fault, I suppose because I ignored it for so long and now, if I’m being totally honest, it’s becoming a little problematic and my carpet’s got a stain on it.

There’s a slight musty smell, too, and no, it’s not down to sexual activity although I’ll admit it’s been a while and I’d probably need to refer back to a good instruction manual, which at least would stop me staring at the stain on the carpet.

That’s the trouble with filling the house with smelly things. I have scented candles, and those plug in air fresheners dotted around the house, as well as a couple of diffusers. I like the aroma of meadows; freshly mown grass, wild flowers and velvet red roses tantalising my nasal passages when I arrive home.  I prefer it to the smell of a rather fat black dog who needs a bath, and who is currently asleep on a dog bed in the hall, on his back displaying his genitals to the world at large.  Give me the smell of a bouquet of flowers any day.  They look a lot nicer, too. The flowers, that is.

So, yes, anyway, I’ve arrived home this Wednesday morning after a rather confusing mix up of starting dates in my new role as an Employed Person and therefore someone Making A Contribution To Society. Bloody inconvenient it was too – if you’ve ever attempted to drive the full length of the M602 in or out of Manchester during the rush hour, you’ll know that getting up at the Crack Of Night and leaving at least three hours before you’re expected to get to where you should be, is an absolute must. Particularly if you want to arrive anywhere vaguely on time and not have people sitting drumming on their dashboards sending you plaintive messages about your whereabouts (catch my Never On A Sunday blog to find out who this is!)

This Wednesday, therefore, did not start well. With a dawn drive to Manchester and the Job That I Wasn’t Supposed to Start Till Next Month, I wasn’t in a particularly good mood to arrive home and find myself staring at the dog’s genitals and having my nostrils assailed by something that definitely wasn’t the aroma of a freshly picked vaseful of gardenia and freesias. (Incidentally, freesia’s are my second favourite flowers. Do feel free to send them).

The smell is damp. I’d sort of been trying to ignore the smell, and the staining on the skirting boards, now crawling miserably up the walls.  A rising tide mark of ‘It’ll Cost Me A Lot of Money to Fix This, Won’t It?’ is now visible in every ground floor room and that means that I’ll have to start using internet banking again and pay some tatty looking bloke with a hard hat and a damp proof membrane to come and give me one. (Damp Proof Course, not anything else, even if it is Wednesday).

That’s another thing. Where did this pre- occupation with sex on Wednesday come from, if you pardon the pun? It seems that on every form of social media people have misconstrued the historical meaning of the term ‘hump day’ and now everyone simply views Wednesday as a sort of excuse to indulge in copious amounts of sexual activity – ergo ‘getting humped on hump day’. I should be so lucky, and no, that wasn’t an impression of Kylie Minogue and I’m not sitting here right now wearing nothing but a smile and a hopeful expression expecting to be humped any second by the tatty looking bloke who’s fixing the damp.

Did you even know the term ‘Hump Day’ had a history? It’s earliest origins seem to date back to the use of the term in 1965 by Ray Mann whilst standing around a water cooler at a Dupont plant, although go back another 20 years and in 1945 John Steinbeck referred to Wednesday as ‘Lousy Day’ in the novel Sweet Thursday – which is the earliest reference I could find to a day of the week being given a nickname. In North America, the term ‘Hump Day’ simply refers to Wednesday being slap, bang (there I go again with the sexual innuendo!) in the middle of the week – the ‘hump’ to overcome as we slide happily towards the weekend.

There’s also a song written in 1975 and performed by J J (ha!) Cale – called ‘Fridays’ and the lyrics refer to Wednesday as ‘Hump Day is Wednesday, hump day’s Wednesday; Over the week, the week’s half gone’

So, we don’t only feverently dislike Wednesday because not an awful lot of us have an awful lot of humping going on – go on – Hands Up, if you dare. How many of you actually HAVE indulged in a bit of a quickie before work this morning?  Thought so. You’re all like me, stuck on the M602.  No, far from it, we all seem to profoundly dislike Wednesday because it is, in fact, the most difficult day of the working week to overcome, being right in the middle and an awfully long way to go until Friday.

Wednesday has never been a very popular day, if you look around the annals (annals, not anal. Let’s not go THERE again!) of history.  For a start, the very name Wednesday is derived from an old English term ‘Woden’s Day’ – this bloke was a chief Teutonic God and his name meant literally ‘raging and mad’.  It’s not a good start.  Steve Jobs died on Wednesday, so did Charles Darwin, so Wednesday’s weren’t particularly good for them either.

The Oaklahoma City bombing on the 19th April, 1995 in which 168 people died – you’ve guessed it- fell on a Wednesday. Lao Airways Flight 301 crashed into the Mekong River, killing 49 people. Yep, Wednesday again. In 1933, there was a hurricane in Chesapeake Bay which killed 47 people, yes – on a Wednesday.

I don’t think I need to go on – oh, and if you’re born on a Wednesday, tough shit because apparently ‘Wednesday’s child is full of woe’ – can you blame it with all the bad things that are happening on Wednesday’s?  Personally, I’d just bed down in your mother’s womb a little longer and aim for Thursday, which promises you’ll go far, or Friday and you’ll be loving and giving.

In fact, Wednesday doesn’t really have anything to do with sex at all. Which is a damn good job because, to be honest, with it being the middle of the week, and the bad things which happen on a Wednesday, I’m sort of not in the mood.


© Amy J Steinberg 2017




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