End of the world/weekend

Why, oh, why do Monday mornings have to happen? Can we not just skip straight to Monday afternoon? Or how about Tuesday? Wouldn’t the world be a happier place if we went to bed on Sunday night, dreading Monday morning and instead woke up and it was magically Tuesday…

There’s something about that moment of dread as you drift off to sleep: ‘No, no, damn it! Must…. not… sleep… must… postpone… Monday…’ There’s that little knot in your stomach, that utter misery of the weekend being over. Even if your weekend hasn’t even been that great (and for the record, my weekend has been pretty close to perfect) you still don’t want it to end. And it has nothing to do with your enjoyment of work/school/uni/retirement/other existence.

I think I know why. It’s about control. Well, it is for me anyway. I love having the flexibility of suddenly deciding to read my book for half an hour. Or go shopping. Or stay in bed. Or have a drink. I don’t like being told what to do. Yes, I’m a typical woman. Stubborn as hell, and for no good reason.

So what I really dread about the week (other than not being able to be in a small village in Hampshire) is not being able to do what I want, when I want. I’d happily work into the evening, take 30 minutes to wander around Hyde Park, 5 minutes to do the washing up etc etc. And you know what? I’d probably get more work done…

Or perhaps not. Perhaps what I really want is a 6 day week – 4 days working, 2 days off. Much better.