Some people, despite a life time of practice, still get their Saturdays wrong. Were you to cruise the streets at 8am (in the name of science, say, for there can be no other sound justification), you would see scores of people running around like ants, or cycling to nowhere in order to come back as quickly as possible. Across the country people are rushing, running, or simply lying in bed, defeated by the prospect of the day, unable to rise.
Not I, dear friends, fellow compatriots, comrades in arms. Not I; I arose at the sober hour of 9.30am, and then garbed myself in a black bathrobe and ascended to the kitchen, where I made myself a must scrumptious mug of loose leaf Earl Gray tea. And did not stop there, no, I then made a large plate of breakfast consumptibles. Toasted sour dough smothered in baked beans over which I slipped a large fried egg and adjoined by two rashers of crispy bacon. So accoutered, I sat down and ate it all. Ah, delicious!
That was now over twenty minutes ago. Were satisfaction warmth, my stomach would glow with rubicund pleasure, as if packed full of coals. I have no urge whatsoever to do anything but digest, and plan to read the news and perhaps a book for the next hour or so while listening to delightful music. Verily I am a master of the Saturday.
Outside people are still running, biking, shopping. Some are arriving home by now, panting and covered with a chill sweat, bent over, hands on knees, trying to still their racing hearts. Faces flushed, legs quivering. Pity them, gentle readers, and their misguided efforts. They should have nibbled on a rasher of bacon and put their feet up. Perhaps, with a little wisdom, one day they shall.
UPDATE: The day continues in fine form. Lunch was home-made guacamole and chips with mozzarella balls dipped in olive oil served as appetizers. The main course was a large slice of flan, all of which was accompanied by two bottle’s of champagne’s worth of mimosas while listening to Nouvelle Vague. And the day isn’t yet but half in the process of being over! I think I might repair to the couch so as to read some more of Sonya Taafe’s short story collection (courtesy of the inestimable Jessica Wick) or perhaps watch another episode of Twin Peaks, which has me pining for Vampire the Masquerade, first edition (we’re talking the original 1993 game here, when vamp angst meant biker jackets and earrings, punk hairstyles and synth music).
And the show goes on! Damn, I should give lessons in living.
UPDATE THE SECOND: Have just awoken from a light nap into which I fell after reading some Taafe while seated on my couch with my legs outstretched before me. The couch is the color of blood caramel, leatherine, and so soft and comfortable that I have as of yet to read anything while seated on it and not fall asleep. That is not hyperbole. Every time. It has reached the point where I tacitly admit to myself that any attempt to read while seated on it is but a dissembling prelude to sleep. I fool nobody but myself.
I was awoken, however, in order to join my family upstairs for espresso and wafers slathered in nutella. I only ate four, deciding that the time had come for temperance and moderation. It is now 5pm, and I believe I might watch some more Twin Peaks. Barring that, I might attempt to read some more Taafe while seated on my couch. Which, from hence forth, shall be known as Oblivion.