Numbered Days

Don’t you love Friday night? Walking out the revolving door, sometimes running, as you and the other wage slaves do the 5pm sprint? I love the trip home; the anticipation of two whole days where you only account to yourself. The things I mean to get done, which come Sunday are usually quite different to what I really get done. I had no grand plan for this weekend, not really. The weather in Sydney has gone bonkers, we’re on the slide into Summer, but climate change had a Wintery surprise, which is a bit of a pain when you’ve packed your winter coat away, and couldn’t find a pair of opaques to save your life. And that sore throat gets dirtier as the winter week progresses, until your head throbs and swells and your body just won’t let you get out of bed. Which means all you can think about on Friday evening as you shuffle out of work is sleep, sleep and more sleep.  So even though my heart’s desire arrived in the mail and I really wanted to spend the weekend playing with this cachophony of colour

all I really got done was