luxury is....
time to enjoy the papers in the morning with a cup of steaming hot tea or coffee. The tea must be deliciously sweet and utterly tempting, much too milky for others to wish for, but perfect for me. The cup gets carried carefully back to a warm bed and the tinkling of china stops its bell like warning that I'm walking with hot delicate substances. The Husband is waiting and we unfurl the papers. The main paper goes to my partner and i tear into The Weekender. The plastic packaging is thrown on the floor for now, only to be something I'll slip on later, but for now my head is on a propped up pillow and I'm happily gazing up at my new magazine. Like all glossies i flick through all of the pages, abandoning the contents page for others, i find what I'm looking for...'readers comments'. I laugh out uninhibited, for today I'm not on the bus reading, this weekend is the best type of weekend. I am at home. 
I flick through again, and not finding anything to instantly take my fancy i move on to the next section of paper, and the next, and the next...piles of wreckage are strewn around the bed. Crumpled sheets of paper, messily folded or crushed into squares surround The Husband and i on our once fortnightly life craft of sanity. Its the best sort of weekend. I'm not working and its one for pottering. Everything is lazy and slow. The roast is slow, our walks are slow, it is comfortable. For two whole days we are the Lord and Lady of our own little manor. No rushing, no buying, it is all our own convenience.
time to enjoy the papers in the morning with a cup of steaming hot tea or coffee. The tea must be deliciously sweet and utterly tempting, much too milky for others to wish for, but perfect for me. The cup gets carried carefully back to a warm bed and the tinkling of china stops its bell like warning that I'm walking with hot delicate substances. The Husband is waiting and we unfurl the papers. The main paper goes to my partner and i tear into The Weekender. The plastic packaging is thrown on the floor for now, only to be something I'll slip on later, but for now my head is on a propped up pillow and I'm happily gazing up at my new magazine. Like all glossies i flick through all of the pages, abandoning the contents page for others, i find what I'm looking for...'readers comments'. I laugh out uninhibited, for today I'm not on the bus reading, this weekend is the best type of weekend. I am at home. 
I flick through again, and not finding anything to instantly take my fancy i move on to the next section of paper, and the next, and the next...piles of wreckage are strewn around the bed. Crumpled sheets of paper, messily folded or crushed into squares surround The Husband and i on our once fortnightly life craft of sanity. Its the best sort of weekend. I'm not working and its one for pottering. Everything is lazy and slow. The roast is slow, our walks are slow, it is comfortable. For two whole days we are the Lord and Lady of our own little manor. No rushing, no buying, it is all our own convenience. The weekend is ours to prod fires, take afternoon naps and day dream with the dog on our knee.
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