I swear (constantly) that when I was younger, I didn’t appreciate weekends or holidays. I even — shudder — got bored by them. The hours would pass by, slowly, and I could find nothing that I wanted to do: all my books read, the outside landscape of garden or common ground uninteresting, the helpful housework that my mother might suggest needing doing somehow unattractive, the various craft ideas that had been pushed on me unwanted . . .
(Yes, I did learn to knit and sew when I was a lot younger. I did have things like embroidery kits or basic knitting wool and needles given to me as presents, or in an attempt to get me interested. I’m not sure whether the reason why I knit and sew now, when I didn’t knit and sew then, is because I have more interesting materials and projects to work with, or, more embarrassingly, because of a porcupine/camel shan’t! reflex whenever anyone else suggests I do something or tries to get me interested in it. I like to think that I’m mostly over it now, but to be honest, I know there are books I’m never going to read or films I’m never going to watch precisely because people have pressed them on me so enthusiastically and irritatingly.)
But I’m wandering. I do appreciate weekends and holidays now. I wish they were longer.
What a good thing that I have a holiday coming up.