On Friday, all Friday I thought it was Saturday. And then I’d remember it was Friday again. The great thing is that it still wore Saturday’s clothes, all bright and golden. This had two advantages. I don’t work on a Saturday, it’s my Me-Day. And sometimes this is a bit of a pain, because I find myself hovering around the computer, really wanting to do some work but knowing that if I do, all balance is gone and I’ll be pinching time out of the rest of the coming week, ‘because I owe it to myself – I worked on Saturday after all.’
So Friday had two beautiful aspects – the first was the sense that it was Saturday, and anything I did in the way of work was ‘bonus’, over and above what I needed to have achieved that week. (Are you with me so far?) It had the feeling of being slightly illegal at worst and gently expansive at best – that lovely feeling when you decide to do someone a favour, and do the work not because you have to but as a gift. So everything I did, flowed, without the pressure to get it out by a certain time. This is the champagne of freelance work – when you’re well ahead of your deadline, and you feel ready for anything else as well.
The second thing was that it was Friday after all, underneath all that golden relaxed feeling of the first day of holidays, and I was ‘allowed’ to work, without the pressure to go and relax. Any workaholic knows that pressure only too well.
It would be wonderful if I could cultivate this feeling and switch it on at will, turning every day into Saturday. Saturday is unique among days. Sunday in my mind has another feeling to it. Sunday is silver with touches of gunmetal in the late afternoon, a hangover from schooldays when it became time to pack and go back to boarding-school. Having to have attended church in the morning also took off any gilt there might have been. Still, silver is also a colour.
Actually, every day of the week has a colour, in my head… But that’s a subject for another post.