Weekends represent warfare for me.
On the one side is the part of me that says ‘it’s the weekend, dammit – slob out, you’ve earned it’. This is the part of me that fancies a lie-in until 11am, followed by a leisurely potter about and breakfast that takes me to 1pm, followed by a day doing not a great deal.
On the other side is the part that says ‘this is your only chance to do the stuff you complain about not being done during the week’. This is the demon voice that says ‘iron shirts’ and ‘mend the dishwasher’ and ‘build your website’ and ‘buy picture frames’ and an awful lot more.
It’s a rare weekend indeed where both these urges are satisfied. And that’s without taking into account the wishes and plans of Beloved Other Half.
This weekend has come closer than most. We have just rented a garage as a way of clearing some of the junk out of our overcrowded flat. Today I bought storage boxes and shelf units for it, and also swept it out and cleared the cobwebs away. I hit the kitchen like a whirling dervish, clearing grime that had been ingrained for months (though somehow also avoiding doing the washing up). And I have finished a first draft of my entry for the BBC Canterbury Tales writing competition. If you’re nice people I’ll post it when it’s finished.
So, much productiveness.
But also much slobbing too – and an enjoyable session on Amazon and Blackstar stocking up on 80s music and movies. yay for Duran Duran, The Breakfast Club, Pretty in Pink and Heaven 17. Among others.
A good weekend, then, I feel.
Shame it’s over.