The alarm is set for 7.00am.
Saturday morning, I have absolutely nothing to do all day.
My only job is to prove to myself that, despite many years’ hard proof to the contrary, I can relax, sleep in, have a super chill morning and ignore chores—of which I have none.
At 6.53am I realise I actually have a few things to do.
Because at 6.53am I wake up, knowing the the alarm would go off in a couple minutes.
Few things to do: water the plants. That’s a Saturday job all right.
And then do something with the hole Bryne’s cigarette butt burnt into the rug last night.
Because he would never do anything with it anyway.
Bryne is the flatmate and he smoked last night in the living room despite our house rules: no dogs, no girls sleeping over and smoking only on the fire escape landing.
He does smoke in the living room and last night he messed up big time.
So, I’ll have to fix the rug.
Also, I have to come up with three stories for him.
He said he wanted me to tell him stories. Of anything, really, as long as they take his mind off — how did he put it? — “stuff” was the word, I guess. Bryne has a fairly limited vocabulary.
So that. Water plants, rug, three stories.
By 6.58am I have my list of things to do.
But I’m supposed to relax too. Enjoy doing positively nothing.
And I’m forcing myself to. The alarm never goes off, I deactivate it at 6.59am., and allow myself 5 more minutes to just chill and do absolutely nothing.
Which I do. Or, in fact, do not do.
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