Monday, 8 February 2016


"How was your weekend?"

The question often posed on a Monday (or Tuesdays, in my case, given that I normally take Mondays off to escape all of this). Is anyone really bothered by the answer? This jabbering is just an excuse to get out of work for five minutes without involving tea-making.

It bothers me when the answer is, "Oh, nothing much really, just a quiet one."

It makes me wonder what they're hiding.

Or maybe they're the sort of person I aspire to be, the sort of people who can veg without feeling guilty about it. If I settle down with a good book, my mind flickers to incomplete tasks that warrant attention. Doing roots. Working out. Writing to friends (yes, I still do this). Watching that documentary a friend recommended. Listening to new bands for research. Painting toenails. Sending over the family photos I promised to send my half bro and co (originally snapped last June, I believe). Developing that book idea. Dusting.

Maybe, these people who have 'chilled ones' and 'nothing much really's actually fucked off to Amsterdam for two days to sample all the delicacies it has to offer. They're not obliged to tell me.

But I've a sneaking suspicion they really did do bugger all. And I envy them.

I am currently booked up til July, I think. If I ever see a blank weekend in my diary, instead of treating myself, I often email one of my workplaces and ask if they could use an extra pair of hands. I can't just do nothing.

(That's a lie. I did rinse up four serieseses worth of Prison Break in about a month. But only in the evenings after completing my chores. Honest guv. And because I'd fallen in love with Wentworth Miller. Honestly, I hadn't had that much of a crush on a character since, and I shudder to admit this, but you must remember I would've been about seven, Omri Katz in Eerie Indiana).

The Love Katz, then and now. I hope you can still hear me over how loud that shirt is.

Come Wednesdays, we're already on to "Any plans for the weekend?". This involves me fishing out my diary because I can't remember a thing without it, and reeling off a list of stuff. When I ask the same question in polite return, I inevitably get, "Nothing much, really." They sometimes look a bit sad. I'd be fucking delighted.