You read stories in the weekend sections of the broadsheets , you know the sort , "My ideal weekend' . They always begin with exquisite breakfasts comprising freshly percolated coffee accompanied by pastries from their local artisan bakery and usually end with al fresco dining washed down with a few bottles of Rioja.
Mine are never going to live up to those standards. For a start , I'm usually on Mum's taxi duty, so Fridays are alcohol deprived. By Saturday I'm usually dealing with a couple of sleep deprived, hormonally stroppy teens. The situation normally deteriorates by the early evening because DH has spent the bulk of the day achieving nothing , rounded off by some inane TV sports marathon.
Saturday is my binge drinking opportunity and I make a point of maxing out on cheap plonk. Sunday rolls around all too quickly, beginning with a dehydrated hangover and is usually peppered with family duty visits, homework which usually includes the tail end of some hideous project on which we're usually 3 weeks behind schedule and a couple of sports bags full of stinky, sweaty trainers and T shirts.
There's usually the arbitrary row about how dull our lives have become and a spot of self flagellation about the number of unticked tasks on the To Do list.
Meanwhile the rest of the world appear to be having happy, cheerful, sun kissed family meals al fresco or a spot of pampering at the local spa, rounded off with cocktails or some such with wildly witty mates.
Maybe the grass is always greener. One of these days, I hope to find myself in their shoes. If only.