***NOTE _ WRITTEN ON THE 8TH OF AUGUST 2017***
The morning after the night before..?
I’m a zombie.
I have ONE FreeDay a week. My weekend. Just ONE. It’s not a holiday-Day – but has become more of a working-but-just-not-at-the-shop-Day (although, occasionally I am at the shop). Like a ‘free’ period for teachers; it’s been falsely advertised.
I spread my Mondays like cortisone cream. Thinly. I go to the Cash & Carry (yes, that is a sentence I use now), the bank, do an Aldi & Morrisons food shop, *think about cleaning the house (*sometimes I do clean the house), chase up orders/ emails/ letters/ phone calls to various people/companies, including online retailers etc. etc. etc. This wasn’t part of the plan. When considering my opening times, I’d enticed myself with a gift-wrapped ‘Free MonDays for self-indulgence’ hamper, one might find on an 80s game show. But, alas, this isn’t happening. The plan has ‘gan aft agley’ (RIP OMAM).
Except yesterday. I was in the Big Smoke. Eek! I went to watch ‘The Ferryman’ at The Gielgud Theatre. Smitten within seconds. Dark moments, fuelled by (often misplaced) loyalty, interspersed with comic relief in a multi-generational Irish, Catholic family. The emotions were palpable; be it buried desires, a buried body, cooing over rabbits pulled out of a coat, by a Lennie-esque character, or the harrowing final scene). It was pretty-darn perfect. And therefore, a pretty perfect FreeDay.
Having printed off a two-sided A4 guide for my friend on looking after MyBoy (thank you sooooo much), we set off on Sunday after closing time for a night at my brother’s before the 7 o’clock showing the following evening. I know, I was cutting it fine; working today, so irrespective of what time the 3-hour play was going to finish (with two intervals), it was safe to say it was going to be a late one. (I hadn’t quite envisaged a 4am ‘late’ though – certainly not on a school night)!
The drive back was exhausting, but, enthralled by the break, the return seemed to be relatively speedy (why does a return journey always feel quicker)? As I desperately tried to pin MyBoy down for kisses and guilt-fuelled embraces, (he kissed me. Once. At least), he was aching to reconvene with his bezzy, Max, the British Blue, (aka Greenie). Anyone with a cat will know that 4am is the universal get-the-HooMans-up-for-a-catflap-reminder time. I reluctantly did (after a few more smothering kisses).
And then my alarm jolted me awake. At the (seemingly) ungodly hour of 8:30am. Having (very lightly) snoozed through MyBoy returning and deciding to throw himself on my chest for an I’ve-missed-you-after-all-HuMum catnap, I was more tired than I think anyone has *ever been before (*possibly). For some time my alarm hasn’t even been switched on, let alone woken me up. I was shattered! You know that kind of exhaustion when you screw up your eyes and tears sting as they run? That. It’s your core pleading with you for just a little more time. Inside.
Incapacitated, I was thinking of new ways to motivate me to get out of bed (New top? Nope. Driving, not walking to work? Nope. Crunchy Nut Clusters for breakfast? Yes (doesn’t have to be much, I’m easily pleased) – and I’m up))! before auto-piloting my way through dirty dishes, feeding MyBoy, driving to FurCats.
I got through the day though. Albeit slightly zombied. The morning after the night before..? It’s my new weekend feeling.