Sitting at my desk I watch the digital clock on my laptop flip that final number that signifies the end of my working week.
No more “no pulling my hair back into a tight bun” or rushing to the train station. And school’s out, so no more crunch’n’sip, sandwich wars or uneven braids. I officially have two whole days of sleeping in and doing what I want.
And then the alarm goes off. What is this? I’m sure it’s Saturday! And why is my daughter currently launching herself at me from the doorway in her swimmers, goggles in hand?
I’m a touch confused and disoriented (most likely with a child-sized concussion), and perhaps a little dusty after a late night. Then reality hits me as hard as that mouthful of ice I swallowed when I convinced myself that I could snowboard. SATURDAY SPORT.