I have worked from home for years so I don't really differentiate between weekdays and weekends. However, I spent Saturday in a flurry of baking, cooking chicken nibbles, making jelly and generally preparing my contribution to seven-year-old granddaughter's birthday picnic as well as shoving a couple of loads through the washing machine, hanging it out, bring it in, folding it etc. Oh, I also wrapped the birthday presents. The Sunday morning was a whirl of packing stuff up for the aforementioned picnic – which was absolutely lovely. Although it is officially autumn, the sky was brilliant blue without a cloud and the temperature somewhere in the low twenties. Not a squabble or complaint among the five children – small miracle. Then everyone back to my house for birthday cake and a much deserved cold beer. Then when they had gone, there was a lot of washing up and trying to sort out which plates, mugs, spoons, etc. were mine and which were absentdaughter's. So that was all busy and mostly fun – but boy did the evening drag. We weren't hungry – stuffed full of quiche, sausage rolls and cupcakes – NZ television is even more dire than the BBC – and I just longed for bedtime from about five o-clock in the afternoon. To be fair, I was feeling pretty tired. Otherwise I would have ironed Saturday's washing
– I don't think. There is certainly something slightly dreary about Sunday evenings; it's a kind of non-time.