It is a crime how little I do with my time. Really. I've just had two days off from working - two whole days, two fecund, juicy, plump, delicious days which I could have used to do one of thirty million things... I could have dedicated two days to complete and utter hedonism, supped champagne from a maiden's shoe, smoked opium till my knees bled, and generally dandy-ed it up one time. I could have enriched my soul by going and getting mildly freaked out by video installations at the Tate Modern, then having to sit down for a bit and think about normal things like scones. I could have done some washing, for Christ's sake. But no. I did nothing.
Oh...I may have stood on a snail yesterday, if that counts. But seeing as I don't have a psychotic hatred of crunchy invertebrates, or indeed a garden, it wasn't really doing something constructive, rather a guilt-ridden but secretly satisfying happy coincidence.
Point being, most people would look at a stretch of 48 hours without going further than the corner shop and call it a weekend. But then, things are designed for you to not do anything at the weekend. You've got your papers with thousands of supplements that will easily take you through till Sunday afternoon. You've got your sport on the telly. You can go to the pub at 12pm without looking like a lonely, snuffly drunkard. Most importantly, everyone else is in the same boat. Everyone can gather, rosy-cheeked, in the local park for a huge smiley collective game of rounders, or whatever the hell it is that well-adjusted city types do nowadays. You get a day off in the week, and you're on your own, with very little to do.
But! I can go to the post office at 3.45pm and THERE WILL BE NO QUEUE! Have that!
Alas, I have nothing to post... Ah, life.
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