Sunday, 15 March 2009
How very British of me.....
It is 7.51am on a Sunday morning.
The fact that i am even out of bed at this time is all wrong, I know it is because I know all of my family and friends will still be tucked up in bed and fast asleep, enjoying their weekend lie-in.
I however, for some reason have started enjoying getting out of bed at around 7ish for the last few weekends, I am filled with excitement and fearful of wasting even one second of my precious weekend.
The routine has evolved as follows:
- Wake up.
- Immediately start thinking of all the things I can make on this glorious day off work.
- Jump out of bed, with way more enthusiasm than my snoozing boyfriend is happy with.
- Tend to and feed my cat, Murphy, who by this time is attention seeking on a grand scale by
jumping off things and mewing like a neglected child (which he most definately is NOT - that cat is a spoilt baby replacement if ever i saw one!)
- Put on my incredibly attractive stripey fleece dressing gown, slippers and scrape back my hair (oh yes, i bet this is what the boyf was imagining when we first got together, total granny chic).
- Go down to the kitchen and make myself a coffee (with the machine i bought the boyf for xmas, and have since totally dominated and as such feel a teensy bit guilty, but not enough to stop).
- Fling open the curtains in that way my mother used to when i was younger (i feel a little bit Julie Andrews at this point, and have to stop myself bursting into song).
- Sit myself down on the sofa in front of the bay window of our living room and bask in the glory of the morning sunshine streaming through (this has got to be an adult thing, I cannot recall ever having enjoyed such simplicity as a child).
- Read my favourite magazine 'Guardian Weekend' from Saturday's Guardian newspaper which i have started buying every weekend, cover to cover, whilst occasionally harrassing the cat (who is also basking ) with an ear scratch and a coo.
- Do the above until such time as the beast upstairs awakens and desires breakfast, at which point we'll argue over who's turn it is to make it and eventually go off and do our own things creatively, me on my quest to become domestic goddess (of the craft kind, I am no Nigella Lawson), and he to his beloved 'vintage' car.
So, to summarise, that is officially (in my eyes) a very British and mature thing to be enjoying on a Sunday morning and as such I am surprised that I appear to have 'grown up'.
In that sense at least, I happily still carry many an immature trait around with me, and that's just fine with me.