Snug under the duvet, you open one eye and stare lazily at the world. Slowly wake up and unwind safe in the knowledge that this is the weekend. You’re safe, this is Saturday. And finally you ooze out of bed, shuffle round for your slippers, then amble into the kitchen for fresh coffee, big breakfast, a flick through the papers. Take your time as you think of all those people on the road, ferrying their kids to well-meant Saturday morning activities. You’ve done all that. You’re safe now. Your daughter is a fully fledged adult and beyond all those God awful early Saturday morning activities.
Yes you remember rising early – dance class, drama class, swimming class – it was a Saturday thing,and now all you do is have to pour yourself a coffee, make some toast and plonk yourself on a chair for a long breakfast.
Crawl out to the supermarket for the weekly shop. It’s a Saturday thing. Slowly pushing your trolley round the aisles. The buzz of other shoppers, screaming kids, frantic families and that ersatz easy listening shopping music wafting out the supermarket PA. You’ve forgotten the shopping list – just buy something “nice” for dinner and a few bottles of wine – It’s a Saturday thing.
Afternoon, amble into town. Meet your mates for a drink. Watch a football match in the pub. wander round the shops just before closing time. Treat yourself. you’ve worked hard all week, you deserve a treat.
Back home, glass of wine. A massive Macca Cheese bubbling away in the oven. Early evening ex-pat TV on the satellite and then a huge dinner and seconds and you burp your way out of the kitchen as you leave the table.
Shall we go out tonight?
It’s freezing out there and I’m too stuffed and we can curl up on the sofa with 300 satellite channels and there must be something on to watch and who cares. It’s a Saturday thing.
Snooze off in front of the TV and who cares. Tomorrow is Sunday and that, is another Saturday thing.