And lo, the Bank Holiday Sabbath did pass so terribly swiftly. And in the blink of an eye, the morn did arrive and the week of toil did await. And the curs’ed commuter did cling on for dear life as the omnibus hurtled through the streets with no care for the rules of the Centurions of the Law. Arriving at the station, he careered through the concourse, arms flailing and paying no heed to the dawdlers and wanderers he scattered in his wake. For he was late. Cursing the stragglers in front of him, he pushed through the crowds and dodged the wheeled suitcases of frustration and threw himself onboard the train as the klaxons of the doors chimed in response to the whistles of the Master of the Times. Prostrate on the floor, he did thank his fortuitous celestial bodies that the week of toil should be blessedly short.