Saturday used to be my favourite day. It was a day of staying in bed until the very last, of drinking lots of tea, having conversations about the news, and indulging in property-porn. For the uninitiated, P-P is looking at foreign properties in France or Spain. By looking at properties for sale, we were there, in mind if not body. We all have favourite days and for me that was Saturday.
All days are now similar. The getting up and the going to sleep are all the same. There are no divisions, just time, ticking away unnoticed.
In the other world, we would be making the most of these days that are not ruled by work. Some sort of decent breakfast would follow our gargantuan consumption of tea. I would put a Saturday morning cooking programme on and saunter my way through it whilst doing other small tasks. I would be picking up a book and meandering through a number of its pages. I would check my blog to see if I had anything of worth to post. I would shower and get myself prepared for the day to come. Football on TV, a history documentary, back to the pages of my book. Saturdays were my loafing-life.
I am waiting for the whistle to go, for the flag to fall, the green light. But there is nothing that is going to tell me when to start. And that is worrying because I find myself incapable of action, unable to kick it into motion. Time doesn’t nudge you, nor remind you, until it’s too late. The too late is happening as I write, but it’s not me that it’s waiting for. The space that I have before me is one that allows me to decide; am I the one that can take the lead and lead the way? This is Saturday introspection when the world has taken time off and I am strolling through my thoughts.