Dinner is served..............

I stood just inside the entrance to Matalan watching the ebb of trainer shod, track suited people of all sizes and ages clutching their bags of items, purchases no doubt inspired by the appearance of some photograph of someone famous I don't know, in other words a celebrity, all no doubt wanting to be different but nevertheless all ending up the same and I felt depressed. Add to this, a group rummaging through a table top holding jewellery all at the tempting price of 98p.

Matalan, a vast shed, but a tiny efflorescence of the huge manufacturing plant of China, is not outside my shopping range, but this visit really got me down. Not good for one who seeks the lighter and urban soul raising experiences of daily life. But I was stuck. No where to go. Even Next, which strangely, was next door, offered no lightening of the shopping gloom. Retail therapy, if I admit was necessary, was not to be found. It was like an acupuncturist being unable to stick in the pin anywhere near the target.

And thus I was resolved. I needed a simple lift to the daily existence and it came about quite easily and without the need of therapy of any kind. Although, I guess though it is therapy, if the process is life enhancing.

As I had already found delight in that weekend feeling, it was but a short step to improving the daily lot. We would eat dinner at the table in the appropriate place.

For too long we had felt the urge to settle down to the News on TV with a plate balanced upon a tray on our knees, generally listening to to the cliched and stale presentation that both the national and local news present themselves. "...and over now to our correspondent who is outside......." One of the silliest cases for me was when, one mid-November, the news that Myra Hindley, branded the Moors Murderess, had died in prison. The correspondent, was sent, not to be outside the gaol, but to stand in the dark, at night, on the moors, to report live. Absolutely barmy. I know of one local news reporter asking her director where to go, as the expected heavy snow fall had not materialised at the location to which she was first assigned.

But no more. Having the technology to have TV and radio on tap when we wanted and not when the schedules demanded we watch, we became free.

Eating the main meal of the day became relaxing and, well, civilised. I was smiling at this simple act. So, no matter what everyday life on the daily round outside may descend to, I now have the pleasurable interlude of the early evening.

I could become a dinner therapist.

Lost Weekend

I have just rediscovered the weekend. No, they have always been there. They do not actually get lost, but, from scanning the home page of Facebook, there will be many who may claim otherwise.

What I actually mean is that weekend feeling, the waking up on Saturday, not too early, and that marvellous glowing awareness that you don't have to get up. That alone has been the reward of a week's work that I have completed. In addition, foundations had been already laid to create this happiness. Early glances at the bedside clock in the twilight, not quite light hours, did not immediately cause the brain to mentally calculate exactly how much time remains before the alarm dings in. Oh, how different to the feeling twenty fours previously.

There is also a financial reward. I do have to mention it, naturally and once a good enough reason to take the work. That will arrive in due course showing as a welcome and significant figure in the bank account, but this morning was, well, ahead, with the money a few lengths behind. Backed up by a bright but very cold winter's morning, a winning double for which I could not have felt better.

Nagging very slightly, there is the very thin possibility that there will be a Sunday evening - work tomorrow call lying in wait just around the corner. Fingers crossed naturally. The smile of a Sunday free from Monday's call to toil is another bonus. A far cry from last Sunday evening when I received the request to teach, as a former colleague was laid low by one of the current members of the virus race. I ended up staying the week, and, apart from the need to go to bed at ridiculous hours, ie 9.30pm, and giving in to the demand for sleep in the late afternoon, it was a good week on the whole which has resulted with the reward of a Saturday morning lazy wake up.

I did have a good week with former colleagues and children who were good to work with, but, like everything that is pleasurable, over indulgence can spoil the appetite for more. I hope the telephone is quiet on Sunday. I hope the colleague I replaced is fighting fit and suffers no relapse.
I do not want to appear too greedy for another sublime Saturday morning.