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For some people, Saturday morning starts at 1.00am, and they still think it's Friday until about 3.00pm, when they disappear into bed, amidst shards of broken glass, used condoms, and an alcoholic stupour. For others, Saturday morning begins on Saturday afternoon, which is the time they wake up. It's all up to the individual, really.
For me, Saturday mornings begins at 7.00am. Because I am afflicted with nine-to-five syndrome, I wake up too early in a haze of anxiety. I spend the next hour or so deliberately making myself fall asleep, and the whole thing is so exhausting that I actually succeed. Later I will spring out of bed with my customary alacrity (meaning I will disappear further into my blankets and curse the day with many creative imprecations and unholy words) and make breakfast for myself. (Usually a cereal sloshed with milk, closely followed by two cups of coffee).
After loitering over the cereal, lingering over the coffee, and lollygagging over the television, I will stroll down the street to get myself a copy of the Saturday papers. My parents have always bought the Saturday papers, but for some reason, I am the only one amongst four brothers stupid enough to continue the tradition. Perhaps I will pick up a donut or some croissants on the way.
I will spend the next hour or two studiously ignoring the important political stories, reading the obituaries to see if any of my enemies have died (I don't have any enemies, but I'm sure the obituaries will provide me with a few), and most importantly, going over the book reviews (in preference to actually reading the books - it's much more convenient that way).
I do my shopping Saturday evening, (preferring the possibility of being mugged by Upfield bogans to the certainty of being trampled on by fat Lebanese mothers looking for beans: for some reason, they all shop at the Coburg Supermarket around midday. I personally lay the blame on the staff for being open at such eccentric hours.)
Having got all the shopping out of the way on Saturday, Sunday morning will be spent tricking my flatmate into believing that it's his turn to do the cleaning up, which I usually do by the simple expedient of lying. This achieved, I will continue to lie about the house and read a book, perhaps with some music on. In the afternoon, I will go and see a movie. As I don't have a cinema in my neighbourhood, this usually means taking an adventure on the trams. (Although 'adventure' perhaps isn't the right word, unless you classify 'adventure' as "Bold Acts of Derring-Don't on the Public Transport as Tim Braves the Bogans and the Alcoholics.")
In the evening, after having arrived at home, I'll usually finish off with a beer or two, a steak sandwich, and a book.
And the wind-down to the week? I do the wind-down with a rusty old lever I keep stowed in my cupboard for just such an eventuality. Shortly after, I will disappear into bed and dream sweet dreams about murdering my boss or seducing my co-workers, before waking up in a haze of anxiety ... such is life.
6 comments:
I'll say it again - your weekends are way cooler than mine. What are you pointers (or lies, whatever) for getting your flatmate to tidy the place up?
Bogans and alcoholics on public transport - it's kind of a given, isn't it? :(
I like this idea.
I too wake up at 7am on Saturdays, but I have given in and decided just to get up and use the time so that my weekend will feel longer.
I always have my bedside clock set 10 minutes fast: it helps to give me the perception that every day is 10 minutes longer.
Have you ever ventured to, and loitered around, the Dandenong train station? Hmm? It's a sociologists dream. (If only you were a sociologist.)
Mish, the trick is to appeal at once to your flatmate's memory (or lack thereof) and sense of guilt. When you are getting ready to go out of a Sunday afternoon, a few well-timed words should do the trick - 'by the way, you don't have to clean the toilets out - I forgot to do it last Sunday, so I cleaned them out Friday morning.' That should work a treat.
This being said, I am really too cowardly to flat out say things like that to my flatmate, so I usually end up, you know, *not* cleaning the place up. As he's equally lazy, he'll try the same thing back at me, and most weeks, it will all end in tears.
Cristy, that's a good idea too! Getting out of bed early is great, and it really does make the weekend feel longer.
Very proactive, Caz. It's like daylight savings, on an individual level! I have been out to Dandenong Station, once. (This was in my quest to buy an accordion. The guy drove up with the accordion in the boot of his car, and tried to sell me not only that, but also another, smaller accordion he owned and an electronic keyboard. I was apparently supposed to take them all back with me on the train to Flinders Street than on to the Upfield Line, just like that ...)
The community centre in Dandenong, with numerous warnings about heroin abuse, was rather a worry. The Cafe that had on the menu a type of coffee called 'Cafe Late' was bemusing. But at the bookstore in the market, I was lucky enough to get myself a copy of 'King Solomon's Mines'.
I tried this technique where I would only ever wash/pick up after myself. This worked fine with the dishes. The shower and bathroom, not so much. I am a girl , I hate a messy bathroom. Seriously living with boys is a real struggle :(
I wish I could tap into the housemate's sense of guilt but he has none. 3 more months of this!!
Try death threats, then. Where the guilt fails, the fear will kick in!`
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