I am very good at Saturdays (if I do say so myself). They are always enjoyable. But the pinnacle of the enjoyment is my Saturday nights. I know that as a single female with a brain and, dare I mention it, a womb, I should be out hitting the town, meeting The Gentlemen, taking in The Culture and socialising.
But I socialise plenty during the week. So I love to have Saturday nights to myself. Entirely.
Perhaps I've been outside all day, by which I mean after I've levered myself from reading in bed at around 11. Maybe I've gone for a walk or ride in the late afternoon. Particularly on winter evenings, I love a hot bath with a book and a cocktail to finish the day.
If there's been enough time, I'll have lit the fire before the bath, so that the living room is aglow when I come in. I'll watch the news while I make something a bit fun for dinner.
Forget the pre-prepped mid-week meals I keep in the freezer; Saturday is the night for making gnocchi or a pasty or, since the first Spring greens have finally grown large enough to pick, this rocket and potato pizza with blue cheese from the Great Ocean Road, where I went whale-watching recently.
|Don't believe anyone who says you can't make pizza for one|
A movie (or, if I haven't downloaded anything, a streamed documentary. Yes! Documentary! Saturday night! What am I doing?!). The crackling fire. A glass of red, or a hot chocolate laced with rum when the film's done. And the promise tomorrow of another sleep in, more coffee and reading, and a chance to do it all over again.
I can't help but feel that somehow I'm letting the societally sanctioned "Life" pass me by. How can I be so happy, so content with silence and the fire and a decent meal and the promise of more adventures tomorrow? Shouldn't I be missing the cut and thrust of a burlesque show/dance party/nightclub/live acoustic set? Should I long to have "someone there"? "Companionship"? How can this feel so whole, so complete?
But then I look around and think: what more can I ask for? This is living.