Saturday mornings can be divided into one of two categories:
either they are the Holy Grail of the weekend, or they are the spawns of
Satan’s children. There is no in between.
The
morning falls under the latter when I’m pulled from sleep by shrill beeping,
with fewer hours spent in dreamland than I would have liked. When the commute
nearly puts me to sleep, and the day feels like it should be over before it’s
hardly even begun.
The
former appears in the peak of summer, when the sun begins to shine through the
trees, but the coolness of night still lingers in the air. When the dew clings
to the grass and sticks to my feet, and returning to bed is the last thing on
my mind. Without the fog of fatigue clouding my brain, the colours around me
are more vibrant, shocking, beautiful.
The cold is welcome, not resented.
Put
simply, Saturday mornings are infinitely more enjoyable when you have nowhere
to be, nothing to do, and at least eight hours of sleep under your pillow.
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