Today is a day without.
Lately my week ends seem to follow the same pattern: Friday night, get home, kick shoes across corridor, struggle out of cork-lined tights and demure skirt, collapse from exhaustion after showering cat with unwanted affection. . Saturday: get phone call from friend smirking at the fact that I a still in bed at 9 am. Get slightly irate. Want the whole world to leave me alone or at least to stop telling me how to live my life. Crawl back into bed and contemplate. Staying in bed (alone) for too long on a Saturday morning usually brings on the Evaluation Process. The hedonistic pleasure of creature comforts versus the lack of a meaning to existence. Green tea and brioche versus getting old and saggy. Promises of love versus disease and debilitation. Comfort Kater Murr style versus optimism and risk-taking.
It’s not pretty. By 12 I’m usually close to tears and in dire need of kicking my own ass. Then the day can either take off and improve, or slide into anaesthetised limbo. Like today. And my cat hates me because I cornered him and applied his flea-killing treatment.
It’s another self-indulging day. It’s another two months until Saturday morning in bed can be shared and take on a whole new dimension.