Measure of a successful weekend
My personal measure of a successful weekend: when the laundry, groceries and supper are done, and I’m still awake. Oh, and it’s not yet midnight. An easy standard to maintain.
All of the above activities require that I be close to home. No way to get through the list while in my cubicle, or on the bus (representing 80% and 20% of the average workday time allocation. The weekend has to serve, and anything else on the schedule means that the whole week will be hard to accept.
Not complaining. I’ll be in my front row seat for the Awards this evening (although watching the associated films will have to wait). A chance to see how glamour parades, although they never avow to having laundry, or groceries to schedule in. Personal assistants, I suspect. Something to do with the excessive salaries. I’ve tried to convince the kids that they, too, can live like PAs, but there’s a degree of disbelief. Maybe I don’t look enough like a famous person.
Finished Week Four in my history of the Beatles. Now they had things to worry about. Listen to “The Taxman”…
Had to shovel to get out of the driveway (again). Nothing heavy, but we decided that just packing it down (again) might lead to wrong conclusions on the part of the neighbours. Someone with a big blade cleared away “the bump” during the night, earlier this week, but it’s not fair to depend on miracles. I’m not faith-filled, to that degree.
And the dog? He’s enjoying his hilltop vantage point, where he can bark at the passers-by.
