Where do the weekends go?


I left here on Friday afternoon about 5pm and thought “great, a weekend of rest ahead”. Here I am back at the desk on Monday morning and what do I have to show for it? I could spend today’s posting moaning about my lack of a social life or even my inability to make better use of my time but no. I am looking on the bright side of things and suggesting that the weekend just gone was a fine example of what they should be for. After all, the weekend is not a party happening somewhere else. It is my weekend:

  • football – lots of unnecessary shouting (an inverse relationship between the skill of the players and the amount done) and puffing
  • funeral – a very sad occasion but also quite a tedious service
  • I sat in – a quick trip to the city centre and back home for some food with Ms 73man
  • I recycled plastic – the fine weather makes me think I can make a ‘real difference’
  • late lunch with a friend and Ms 73man in the incomparable Gruel café (do unmatched chairs give it more atmosphere than it actually has? and what’s the story with the head waiter? is she French or just strange?)
  • I browsed the nerdy electronics shops in a fit of not knowing what else to do – Dublin is poorly served by Apple stockists
  • I nipped down the shops for a tin of beans for dinner – the simple things in life are often the best
  • scanned the bourgeosie’s manuals known as the Sunday Tribune and The Observer.

Yes, yes you can have your 5am nights out and your bracing Dublin Bay swim but that is what is known as a weekend.

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