Much as I adore The Teenager (and he is totes cute), it’s always a little bit lovely to have the house all to myself when he goes to London for the weekend.
The house. To myself. For 48 delicious hours. I always have such great plans. This weekend I will mostly:
- Put a face pack and hair mask on.
- Eat a £10 meal deal all on my own (shame I ate the starter and dessert yesterday. Oops).
- Wear a kimono after a long, long shower without being laughed at.
- Talk to the plants, especially Bertie.
- Go to bed early with a pile of magazines and a new book.
- Desperately catch up on Book Club book I have yet to read. We meet on Monday, gah.
- Handwrite a pile of cards to my dear friends I have shamefully neglected recently.
- Listen to music really, really loud on my headphones without worrying that The Teenager is yelling at me from upstairs.
In reality, I will do none of these things. I’m kidding myself. I will mostly be:
- Making inroads into my teetering pile of ironing.
- Organising new house insurance. ‘Citing.
- Cleaning the microwave. And maybe the oven if I’m feeling adventurous.
- Changing the cat litter tray.
- Putting clean sheets on the bed.
- Talking to the plants.
- Scrubbing the grout in the bathroom with an old toothbrush (strangely therapeutic).
Why do I do this? I should be out, painting the town a slightly murky, dusky pink.
I could be theatering, cinemaring, bar hopping, gadding about town. I guess the grass is always greener. When I would like to go out, I can’t. When I can’t, I’m stunned by inertia (aka laziness).
I will no doubt end up in bed at 7pm, shattered by working all week and being called ‘Half Shift’ at regular intervals. My cunning plan to learn Japanese over the weekend will be shelved. I will also not be teaching myself macrame. Or decoupage. Or glass painting.
I will stick to one of my first points though. I will blast out ‘I Am Woman’, shortly followed by ‘Those Were The Days My Friend’. And if I’m feeling particularly maudlin, you can’t beat a bit of Velvet Underground.
Don’t panic. It’s not a pity party. It’s a ‘can’t be bothered’ party…