When people describe their perfect weekends I always think they sound so unbelievably busy.
It’s usually something like ‘bungee-jump off the Grand Canyon in the morning, then go scuba-diving in the Great Barrier Reef then finish with a jaunt to Ibiza for a night of frenzied partying amid gyrating celebs.’
Okay, maybe I exaggerate slightly, but as we introverts know only too well, time away from work is meant to be relaxing.
So I say balls to it. Embrace your inner fuddy-duddy and have yourself some good, homely fun. Rather like this, in fact…
The Perfect Weekend would start with me waking up on Saturday morning to find I didn’t have to do any food shopping, housework or laundry for the next seven days. How did this miracle occur? Dunno. But it’s my fantasy and I’m sticking to it. I would’ve made it last a month, but let’s not be greedy. The magic laundry / food shopping pixies have been hard at work on my behalf and far be it from me to question their dedication to the cause.
I would have a full English breakfast at around 10am and spend the rest of the morning lounging about listening to classic rock albums and catching up on personal e-mails. Needless to say they would all be lovely, positive e-mails from people I actually want to hear from.
I would then meet up with a friend and we would head to a picturesque medieval city for an afternoon of book-shopping, record-buying and coffee-drinking. Both of us would find some fantastic bargains and time to set the world to rights over some caffeinated beverages. So basically, like university is supposed to be but rarely is.
In the evening the best horror marathon the world has ever seen would be on TV and nothing would tempt me outdoors a nice pot of Earl Grey tea, candles, incense and a takeaway.
Sunday would be bright and sunny and I would head to somewhere peaceful and relaxing in the countryside and go for a walk or perhaps a swim. I would wave amiably to the passing dog-walkers and joggers who would all reciprocate my hearty good cheer.
In the afternoon or evening I would see another friend and then catch up on some reading with a soothing choral soundtrack in the background.
I admit this kind of weekend wouldn’t be for everyone – some would no doubt find it boring. Fair enough, I say. I’m a tolerant type – have your party as loud as you like so long as I don’t have to go (or get woken up by it).
And while there’s a term I heard recently to describe folks like me – a ‘Young Fogey’ I don’t think I’m quite there yet, as I tend to live in jeans and tee-shirts rather than tweedy suits with leather patches on the elbow. But you never know.
Now where did I put that pipe?