… and what it really means
Monday mornings have meant many things to me:
The prospect of a grim day at school
The start of full time work, dashing about, trying to find true love –
Monday mornings meant the beck and call of offspring
School runs, toilet training, Thomas the Tank, Bratz…
Where did that all go? Then when these babies grew big, Monday mornings meant back to work…
And then after embracing redundancy/early retirement, Monday mornings meant housework. Which filled me with as much dread as that 8.08 commuter train to Ketchworth.
Not just plain old housework, but intense housework. I used to try and be superwoman on this particular morning, hoover all over, dust within an inch of my life, change all the beds, washing kitchen and bathroom floors after putting on a multiple wash. Then it was off to Tesbury’s for the big shop, spending hoards of money for things I was too tired to eat. I was fair wore out by 2.30.
Not now. I’ve lifted the shadow of this bogey man start to the week. I go at a much slower pace. Hoovering and dusting only half the house (upstairs or downstairs), doing bedrooms in my own time, and putting off the big shop till the next day. Relying on the freezer for that Monday night supper, and buying basics when I head for the coffee bar.
Making a list of what to do the next day, you can face Monday afternoon with your conscience clear and time on your hands. And if you don’t quite know what to do in the dead of afternoon, have a bloody bath…
Tune in for Monday morning, part two……Coming soon to a blog near you.