The book club I attend meets monthly on a Sunday afternoon at 3pm. Inevitably these are the most beautiful Sunday afternoons of the month, and I often feel a vague tinge of regret at ‘having’ to go and spend the last two hours of my weekend day talking about books when I could be at home reading one of my own.
It’s odd because once there I rather enjoy it. But since working fulltime I feel the need to hoard every spare second of free time and squeeze out all its goodness – or I don’t quite stay sane.
I usually waste my spring and summer Saturday mornings catching up on sleep (autumn and winter is for watching schoolboy rugby). I feel perpetually sleep deprived – too many early morning gym sessions during the week. By the time I drag myself up and read the newspaper the day is well on its way and it can be 2 or 3pm before I feel inclined to do anything useful – very happy to lounge and read however.
Sunday mornings are gym, kata class and Mass. Home for a latish lunch and then, again, it’s 2pm before I’m ready to go. Go for me being a rather inadequate term for what I actually do – more reading anyone? Housework doesn’t get a look in. I am a sloth and a sloth by nature – luckily my man is my exact opposite. He seems to thrive on maintaining the house in a livable state and attempting to create order out of absolute chaos.
That all said, this weekend I have actually done some real work – haven’t finished it, or have any idea what is going where, but… My dad’s house has finally been cleared out and I have now acquired more armchairs, sofas, wall units, towels and bedding, than a person knows what to do with. I live in hope that with kids going flatting next year they might need some of it. But I’ll probably store it for a year and then dump it…. meanwhile my lounge looks like a 70s junkyard.
