I regularly look around my house and think of a thousand things I will finally get round to doing if I ever get a weekend with no plans – because weekends are always full of kids’ parties, or a special shopping expedition, or a hangover.
I just don’t have time to….
– make that trip to the charity shop with the bags of clothes that have been in the boot of my car for weeks
– creep into the pig sty that my son calls his bedroom with a massive bin bag, like a reverse Father Christmas
– deal with that pile of papers that I should ‘file’ in some sensible folder like my mum says she does
– fix that skirting board in the kitchen that fell off six months ago
– get in the garden and pull up all the dead plants that have been rotting there since last summer.
Now I actually have a free weekend, and guess what…. I don’t want to do any of those things. And no one can sodding make me.
I’m going to do nothing
I’m going to achieve nothing
and it’s going to be fucking brilliant.