Duvet Day

It’s Saturday. To some, it’s the best day of the week. A free day. A day to do what you need to do to get things done. Or a time to go out, let your hair down and have some serious fun. 

But I’ve decided to take this Saturday off.

I have chucked my To-Do list down the toilet. Fecklessly fired off a salvo of texts to cancel my arrangements. And I’m now pronouncing Fun Club officially cancelled.

I’m having a duvet day.

Not that this is a well-earned or particularly warranted way to spend the day. I’m not working at the moment, so pretty much every day is a Saturday for me. But when I woke up this morning, the desire to shower, prise myself out of my pyjamas or do anything that required wearing knickers and/or a bra simply wasn’t there.

So here I am. Interned in my 10.5 tog. A quilted hostage. Helplessly horizontal. But hopelessly happy.

I like the decadence of a duvet day. The whole dressing gown and slippers, I-don’t-give-a-fuck nature of of it. It makes me feel ever so Noel Coward. I get to bask in my own company. Wallow in the slightly stale delights of my own unwashed odours. Eat breakfast not just for breakfast but for lunch and dinner too. And sleep. Whenever I fancy.

I may choose to watch a movie at some point. Or do something wholesome like meditate, read a book, or finish the scene of a screenplay I’m writing…but deep down I know I won’t.

Tomorrow, I’ll get up. I’ll spring into action. I’ll tick off my tasks. Put the world to right. Be the life and soul of the party.

But today? I intend to be joyfully frivolous and pointlessly indulge in the art of doing absolutely nothing.