Reading on Saturdays

I’ve just put a batch of monkey bread in the slow cooker. I don’t know if it’s going to work but I wanted to try it because there was a packet of bread dough in the fridge and the husband is leaving soon and what else would I do with it anyway.

The only other thing I’ve done today is read.

I’ve been talking about reading too much lately, haven’t I? How boringly unsalacious. Not much to gossip home about…

The thing is: I do not miss my youth at all. Not even a little. But there is one tiny aspect of it that I do miss from the days before I created a whole other person and then went on to add another three to my daily life.

Reading on Saturdays.

This is something I used to do so leisurely during my teens and also during my first (childless) marriage. Saturdays were a glorious safe day where I often didn’t have to get out of bed and I could just finish whichever novel I happened to be reading that week. Saturdasy were for finishing. How beautiful.

Then twelve or fifteen years went by and most weeks I hadn’t started a novel that could be read to completion on Saturdays and so reading became a vacations and special occasions kind of thing and here we are. Loving books more than ever and feeling hopelessly un-well-read.

So today I made monkey bread. And I didn’t make my bed. And I almost didn’t even get dressed (which I sort of regret because yay pjs but I do also need to “expect” bookshop visitors from time to time even though it barely happens) and the only other thing I did was finish the novel I was reading.

And honestly I think I might pick up another one now.

Because despite this nagging you have work to do feeling I also have rest to do and damnit I’m going to have to start getting that right at some point!

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