I think I am in love with Saturday. Saturday is just the luckiest of all days. And Saturday-me is so much more congenial than Monday-me. Monday-me cleans the house from top to bottom, dodges flying balls of tomato soup – BIFF! WHAM! – cleans up again and eats far too many chocolate biscuits, for which Tuesday-me will pay the price (Tuesday-me does the jogging). Don’t get me started on Thursday-me. That girl is a prize ass.
Oh, but I could be Saturday-me for the rest of my life and not mind. Saturday means acres and acres of Timothy. It means, often, a lie-in. It means adventures. Sometimes it means pancakes. This week, it meant a walk into town and some cake.
We took a walk to the shops for some winter gear for Henry. The last time it was frosty, he was five months old. Even he has managed to bust out of that jumper collection by now, and it’s getting too chilly for t-shirts. But you can’t shop without smoothie, and you certainly can’t shop without cream cake. I’d like to see you try.
That is French chocolate gateau, with a profiterole on top and caramel in the middle. I know, WHAT?
Turns out that Henry is about as fond of clothes shopping as his father. But if there was a version of this boy to love the most (there isn’t; they’re all as good), it would be the version in a woolly jumper. Squeeze him, somebody. Oh wait, I will.
Once we’d finished, we wandered home in the sun and I packed away all of Henry’s too-small clothes, sniffling like a Mister Softee. Then we ate, squeezed Henry into his dinosaur suit and headed off to our friend’s lake, for s’mores and a fire pit. We sat for hours while the fire burned down, talking and looking out over the water. It was restful. It was perfect. It was Saturday, of course. What else could it be?
Is Saturday-you the best version of you there is? And how much do you want to punch Thursday-you in the solar plexus? Tell me honestly. And hope you had a lovely weekend, you marvellous people.