Saturday Morning SLOUNGE Time
Saturday Morning SLOUNGE Time
It’s Saturday morning. Not the lazy, coffee-scented, soft-focus kind — the real kind. The kind where you’ve just survived a full week of work, the child has expectations, the dog has expectations, and even the *laundry* has expectations.
“Mum, we’re out of dog treats.”
“Mum, I need spot stickers from Boots.”
“Mum, can you hang the washing?”
“Mum, it’s Grandad’s birthday tomorrow.”
And there I am — still in my dressing gown, trying to sip tea and hold onto the last thread of sanity — already planning a route that somehow covers B&Q, Boots, the toy shop, the pet shop, and the meaning of life.
Apparently, I also need to use a Makita drill to put up ten thousand pictures because “it’ll only take five minutes”. Five minutes, my arse. That’s how every DIY horror story starts. “It’ll only take five minutes” — next thing you know, you’re on your third screw and swearing in Latin.
Meanwhile, my dog’s wagging his tail next to the bed, eyes full of hope and betrayal, like I’ve personally offended him by existing in pyjamas. He doesn’t care about raw plugs or laundry. He wants a walk, and he wants it *now*.
And all of it — all of it — relies on one person: me.
But here’s the truth: I don’t want to be productive today. I don’t want to fix shelves or buy birthday cards or do small talk in B&Q. I want to slounge. Yes, slounge. That beautiful hybrid of sloth and lounge. I want to stay in my dressing gown, make another cup of tea, and disappear into the duvet until I feel like a functioning adult again.
Because sometimes “self-care” isn’t yoga or productivity. It’s lying under the covers ignoring the chaos, sipping lukewarm tea, and muttering “holy crap” at the to-do list that’s judging you from the corner.
The washing can wait. The walls will survive. The world won’t collapse if I sit here for two hours doing absolutely nothing — except maybe my dog’s patience, but we’ll risk it.
If you’re reading this in your dressing gown, congratulations — you’re doing Saturday right.
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