Monday Monologues
by Mona Logg
Welcome, darling, to Monday Monologues, where I, Mona Logg, chronicle the secret lives of everything that shouldn’t have one. Which is everything, really.
I’ve personally witnessed teapots staging coups, met a lamppost with stronger political opinions than most MPs, and once had a lengthy philosophical debate with a particularly argumentative doorknob. Tuesday still hasn’t forgiven me for exposing its centuries-long vendetta against Wednesday, but that’s Tuesday for you.
Every Monday, I serve up theatrical dissections of life’s most wonderfully unhinged moments. The thing about the mundane world—well, everything mundane, actually—is that it’s clearly putting on a performance. Someone should be taking notes.
That someone, thankfully, is me. Pour yourself something caffeinated and prepare for enlightenment. Or at least mild bewilderment. Both are excellent starting points.
Mona’s Monologues
Sandwiches
Sandwiches, darling, have been plotting since Earl invented the first one. Not the Earl of Sandwich—just Earl from Croydon. Lovely fellow. Catastrophic judgement.
Receipts
Receipts are the trees’ revenge: once standing tall in sunlit forests, now severed by the labour of silent hands and reborn to fuel our consumer habits.
Queues
Queues, darling, are Britain’s only actual national sport. Forget cricket, forget football: those are practice runs. The real contest happens in a que.
