Weekending my life away?
It is Saturday again.
It seems it was only Monday yesterday when I was telling my friends at work about my last weekend.
Another week of my life has flown by and it seems I only look up and notice on Saturdays.
Surely Saturdays are meant to be good days, days when I don't go to work and I do all those tasks you spend all week telling myself I will do on Saturday.
Saturdays are when I get up later, have brunch instead of breakfast and experience what 8.30 am feels like from the comfort of my bed rather that a crowded, stifling hot bus.
Saturdays are when I bake, see my friend's kids, have lunch at 4.00 pm and have a glass of wine at 5.00 pm.
Saturdays are when I strip the bed, scrub the bath and talk to my friends and/or family in Oz. Or when I wake up and realise I should have called my friends and/or family the night before but forgot because I had a second, third and fourth glass of wine because it was Friday.
I love Saturdays. I always tick Saturday when asked what my favourite day is. Saturdays are a day from the last working week and a whole 2 days from the next one. As a kid I woke up to 'Hey, Hey its Saturday' and an adult I watched the whole 3 hours of its new evening slot (cause it got too racy for Saturday mornings) before I went out.
Saturdays are ace! Saturday papers, The Age or the Guardian - it does not matter cause I only ever read the colour magazine and do the crossword. Lazy summer Saturdays by St Kilda beach or in the back garden here in Manchester. Or the cold, wet Melbourne ones or ragging up against the cold of an English winter.
Saturdays are great in any season.
The day you long for before it arrives and the day you hate to be over come Sunday.
So why was I a little disconcerted last night when I realised that I was standing on the crest of another Saturday again so soon from the last?
Does my getting older mean that I am finally hearing the march of time pad by my life? Am I becoming more aware of its passing the older I get? Is it because I am leaning backwards to avoid the days racing rather than headlong into my future as I did in my twenties?
I don't know the answer. What I do is that I crossed the road last night outside my office and beheld the last of the sun's rays tickling the facade of the glorious Manchester Town Hall, I was suddenly conscious of time and its passing. And it scared me just a little bit.
Listening to:Ways & Means, Paul Kelly
Reading: The Amber Spyglass, Philip Pullman
It seems it was only Monday yesterday when I was telling my friends at work about my last weekend.
Another week of my life has flown by and it seems I only look up and notice on Saturdays.
Surely Saturdays are meant to be good days, days when I don't go to work and I do all those tasks you spend all week telling myself I will do on Saturday.
Saturdays are when I get up later, have brunch instead of breakfast and experience what 8.30 am feels like from the comfort of my bed rather that a crowded, stifling hot bus.
Saturdays are when I bake, see my friend's kids, have lunch at 4.00 pm and have a glass of wine at 5.00 pm.
Saturdays are when I strip the bed, scrub the bath and talk to my friends and/or family in Oz. Or when I wake up and realise I should have called my friends and/or family the night before but forgot because I had a second, third and fourth glass of wine because it was Friday.
I love Saturdays. I always tick Saturday when asked what my favourite day is. Saturdays are a day from the last working week and a whole 2 days from the next one. As a kid I woke up to 'Hey, Hey its Saturday' and an adult I watched the whole 3 hours of its new evening slot (cause it got too racy for Saturday mornings) before I went out.
Saturdays are ace! Saturday papers, The Age or the Guardian - it does not matter cause I only ever read the colour magazine and do the crossword. Lazy summer Saturdays by St Kilda beach or in the back garden here in Manchester. Or the cold, wet Melbourne ones or ragging up against the cold of an English winter.
Saturdays are great in any season.
The day you long for before it arrives and the day you hate to be over come Sunday.
So why was I a little disconcerted last night when I realised that I was standing on the crest of another Saturday again so soon from the last?
Does my getting older mean that I am finally hearing the march of time pad by my life? Am I becoming more aware of its passing the older I get? Is it because I am leaning backwards to avoid the days racing rather than headlong into my future as I did in my twenties?
I don't know the answer. What I do is that I crossed the road last night outside my office and beheld the last of the sun's rays tickling the facade of the glorious Manchester Town Hall, I was suddenly conscious of time and its passing. And it scared me just a little bit.
Listening to:Ways & Means, Paul Kelly
Reading: The Amber Spyglass, Philip Pullman
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