The taste of a Monday off on the tongue is so much sweeter than that of an ordinary weekend day off. Why is that?
Partly, perhaps, it's the slightly naughtiness of it - I quite legitimately have today off work but somehow I still feel like I'm pulling a sickie. Then there's the fact that on the weekend there's a certain requirement to catch up with people, go out and see friends. And it's not that I don't enjoy all of the above but a day off all to yourself, with nobody else in the house, and nobody suggesting you do something, is wonderfully relaxing: the lifestyle equivalent of a piping hot bath after a hard day's labour. If I knew what that felt like.
Even so, there is also something quite terrible about a day all to oneself that only occurred to me today as I lay, curled on the couch with a pair of new shoes at my elbow and a stack of fresh library books on my lap. And the terrible thing is this: that only on a day off when you have nothing to do, when you can, in theory, do exactly what you want, are you forced to realise exactly what sort of person you are.
Take me, for example, and the line I am very fond of trotting out when I simply can't be arsed doing what I supposedly love best - writing. There are plenty of excuses to go with: a full time job, friends, family and a borderline drinking problem (kidding, Mum). The shorthand for all of which is that I simply Don't Have Time.
And yet when I do have the time - ie; today - what do I do? Settle down for the day with my laptop and a head full of ideas? Er, not quite, but I did read a very good book and buy a truly awesome pair of shoes. Ahem. Now you start to see the problem.
This I can't brush away as not having enough time, being too tired from work or having Too Much To Do. I had nothing to do. And yet I did nothing.
Sometimes there's something to be said for a ten hour day.