Saturday, 10 March 2012

saturday morning

I fucking adore Saturday mornings.  They symbolise everything that is magic about my privileged, middle class, child-free (and apparently utterly smug) existence.  These days, they probably illustrate exactly how urban I've become.

Once upon a time, I'd be up at the crack of dawn on a Saturday.  Out feeding animals, preparing for a show, mucking out.  Riding.  I'd go with Dad to get the ingredients for the weekend's DIY project, peruse the library shelves.  Saturdays weren't bad at all, back then.

Once upon a time not quite so long ago, odds were I'd be battling off a fairly severe hangover caused by drinking an excess of rubbish white wine and failing to eat anything more substantial than hummus and chips before ingesting the better part of a bottle box.  To add insult to injury, from time to time I'd have capped off the night by liberally ordering Vodka Red Bulls/Jager Red Bulls or other faddish drink du jour.  I'd spend Saturday morning wrapped in P's dressing gown, sweating booze profusely, desperately seeking the oblivion of sleep.  On a particularly wrathful hangover, the only activity would be gentle movements between couch, bed and bathroom.  Sometimes I could face being wracked with giggles from the rerun of the night before with my girlfriends/colleagues, whether in person or via text.

These days though, the hangovers tend to be milder.  I generally attempt to pace myself.  [HA HA MOSTLY LIES].  Or it might possibly be that I now work in an English business where getting blotto post-haste following work on a Friday is not the combined goal of all staff (yes, yes: Kiwi binge drinking culture is contributed to the post-colonial hangover, but it appears we've developed some disturbing binging trends of our own amongst the middle class).  I like to eat at restaurants for entertainment that are higher brow than Queen St Burger King these days.  BK still has a place in my heart though, don't get me wrong.

Now, I now often wake up on a Saturday before 9 with the ability to function at a higher level than a mashed cabbage.  I have a cup of tea in bed.  I shower leisurely, start the laundry, then hit the farmer's market for ingredients for brunch and veges for the week.  Today, I was blissfully happy with a coffee and a paper, dappled by the spring light venturing through the window left ajar.  Knowing that there is no work for two whole days. 

Blissful, wasteful and indulgent.  There's a snapshot of my life at 29, captured by three little words. 

Saturday mornings were, and are, the best. 

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