Saturday Morning

You know, sometimes I just am defeated by the mountain that is the average Saturday morning. I lie in bed at around 7 am and wish we were going to a wedding, a housewarming; a funeral, even, anything to escape the drill I have devised for Saturday morning.
What I then do, in order to cope, is this. I leave the sleeping household and go for a run along the canal to clear my head and work out my priorities. An hour later when I come back, full of feel-good phemerones and smugness, the house is still sleeping. Bar the dog who is leaping around barking.

“Come on! Come ON!” I yell, grabbing the dog for his walk. Why don’t I run with the dog? Two reasons. 1. because he leaps in the canal and 2. because I fell over him once and ended up having restorative plastic surgery on my face.

“By the time I return everyone must be up!” I shout. Oh yes, this is one thing you should know about me. Not only do I not do sleepovers, but I don’t do lie-ins and I don’t do breakfast in pyjamas. Indulge everyone with breakfast in pyjamas and you will never achieve a thing. It’s harsh, but true. Breakfast in pyjamas is only allowed if you are unwell. When I’m back everyone is at least standing vertically. Not to attention, but never mind. They are up. After everyone is dressed, and fed, its time for the daily Saturday tasks. Ballet class for Child No 3, violin practise for Child No 2, Latin homework for Child No 1 and for the baby…who cares? For now. As long as I get the three eldest to have achieved something by midday, it’s a morning well spent. And a morning well spent – and homework done – means time off for moi to laze around with the papers on Sunday afternoon, you see. Yes, there is a rationale behind all this.