Weekend Anticipation

Scrolling through Twitter, and reading some blog posts, I notice once again that build-up of excitement concerning Fridays, and the anticipation of the coming weekend.

People are posting about their plans to do something on those two days off, what they are going to eat, and looking forward to drinking some alcohol in many cases. There are mini-breaks planned, trips to major cities, shopping sprees, even doing nothing but staying in casual clothes and binge-watching Netflix.

My life in retirement takes no notice of weekends at all. They are just two more days of the week. Even the shops are open as normal, though only until 4pm on Sundays. I can do something different if I want to, but why would I? I am able to see things or to go to places during weekdays when everyone else is at work. Why go to the coast or tourist sites when everyone else is crowding there on their only two days off?

For me in Beetley, a Saturday and Sunday might just as well be a Tuesday and Wednesday. It has been that way since 2012.

Refreshingly liberating, I assure you.

Wednesday Thoughts

Reading things online, and looking at Twitter, I am suddenly reminded that it is Wednesday.

For everyone still working, at least those still able to work during lockdown, that middle day of the week has some significance. It still seems a long way to go until the weekend promises a break from toil, and the chance to do ‘weekend stuff’.

And it is two more days until that ‘Friday Feeling’ brings the promise of two days not having to get up early unless you want to.

I have to go back a very long time if I want to recall either of those feelings associated with days of the week. Almost forty-one years, to be precise. Because that was the last time I ever worked in a nine-to-five job. Friday evenings were either ‘eat out’ nights, or ‘go to see a film at the cinema’ nights. Something pleasant crammed in to the end of a working day, to get a head start on a weekend of enjoyment.

Saturday nights were ‘friends over for dinner’ nights, or ‘going to friends for dinner’ nights. Sundays were usually reserved for ‘visiting mum’, or ‘roast dinner with family’. By the time it got to four in the afternoon on a Sunday, I was already dreading having to go to work the next day. That feeling usually ruined the rest of what became a dull evening.

If we were really lucky, the whole weekend might be a ‘weekend away’. Friday and Saturday night staying in a hotel somewhere, the enjoyment only dampened by returning home in the usual heavy traffic on a Sunday in London.

Then I started to work in a job that involved shifts.

Weekends became a thing of the past. I was working three out of four of them, so they lost any significance. Then on the one when I wasn’t working, I slept away most of the first day after a night shift. Monday morning stopped being something to dread. I was either out of the house well before six, or sleeping in until getting up for a late shift that started at three in the afternoon.

No boring ‘midweek Wednesday’ feeling any longer. No ‘Friday feeling’ to excite me.

Just shifts.

Now my life could not be more different. The days of the week have no relevance to my life whatsoever. I might go shopping on a Monday, or I might not. I take Ollie out every day, whatever day that is. I don’t miss any ‘Friday feeling’, because every day might just as well be a Friday. Or a Sunday.

Or a Wednesday, for that matter.