I imagine, in the greater scheme of things, that I really love a lie in.
But every time I think about having one, it never seems to work out properly.
I mean, sure, on a Wednesday when I don’t have to go to work I sometimes stay in bed later. But that doesn’t really count as a lie in because I was awake at half-past six listening to Carole move around the house like a really bad ninja and having conversations about what we’re having for tea or what we need to do at the weekend. That’s not a lie in. Because I’ve done things. If anything it’s just a glorified nap.
Sleep. Things. Sleep. More Things.
That’s the very definition of a nap (not one that you’d find in a dictionary, but I think mind sums it up better.
This morning – a glorious, work-free Wednesday, there was an opportunity for a lie-in. I was off work and Carole was off work. In our future was some traipsing around bathroom shops wondering what the fascination with square sinks is, but before that there was a chance for a good old-fashioned lie-in.
And we seized it with both hands.
And we didn’t get up until about nine o’clock.
So that’s definitely a lie-in.
But for me, sadly, it was just another glorified nap.
One of the strange things about our street is that when business of any nature is conducted on the threshold of a property – be it some kind of domestic slanging match, a chat, or sometimes even a phone call, it has to be done loudly. Really loudly.
This morning and something past five, I think, next door was having a discussion about cars with a couple of his mates. In the street. Very, very loudly.
Whereas I would have welcomed this with open arms on a work day, being like some kind of pre-alarm alarm that try as I might I could not turn off, on a day when me, my pillows and the duvet want to have some serious together time it’s just not a good thing.
Especially because who in their right mind has a car-based conversation at half-past five in the morning anyway, let alone a three-way debate about the merits of a silver car with a ridiculously pointless spoiler on the back of it. It was like a completely unwanted episode of Top Gear, happening right outside the bedroom window but where all three of the presenters were Jeremy Clarkson and – like when you watch it on TV – while you might want to, you couldn’t punch any of them.
There is a time and a place for that kind of chat.
I’m fairly sure, as I tried to go back to sleep, that neither the place or the time was right for it this morning.