“Good Evening!” Mr B greeted me this morning, as I rolled downstairs at precisely 10.19 a.m. I think you can safely say that I had enjoyed
I distinctly remember Mr B bringing me a cup of coffee at 7.56 a.m. (he’s good like that; I am, indeed, a lucky woman) and switching on the radio
to hear the Sunday Morning programme. I must have turned over and gone straight back to sleep because the next thing I knew the coffee was cold and on the radio, Dig It’s gardening expert was reassuring a listener that everything was fine with
her Bizzy Lizzies which were just “taking a winter rest”. A bit like me, then.
I excuse my laziness on the fact that I spent yesterday in London. And
London is a tiring place. Everyone knows that. Mr B says a couple of hours in a restaurant, eating, drinking and chatting, followed by three hours sitting in Row G in the Second Circle at Sadlers Wells watching the ballet can hardly be called “exhausting.”
There was the train journey, I venture. Though, if he asks, I shall have to say that I spent my travelling time pleasurably reading (and chortling over) John Mortimer’s “Felix in the Underworld.” I wasn’t exactly driving
the train or checking people’s tickets or doing anything which could be loosely described as “work”.
The thing is, does it matter? Is there anything
so very terrible about staying in bed until after 10 of a morning? When I was a working gal, I used to get up at the last possible minute. Many of my friends and colleagues would tell me that they arose at 6 every morning, in order to spend the next
two hours getting ready for work. I mean, what on earth did they find to do in all that time? My alarm clock used to ring at exactly 7.30 a.m., at which summons I would leap out of bed, stagger into the shower, emerge from the shower, throw my clothes
on, make myself coffee and some Oats So Simple (two minutes in the microwave), prepare a sandwich for lunch, eat aforesaid Oats So Simple, glug down my coffee, clean my teeth and be out of the door, and in the car by 8.10. In this way I managed to stay in
bed for just about the longest possible time, if I were still to get to work in time to be there when the office kettle was switched on for the First Cup of Coffee of the Office Day.
Nowadays, there is no such urgency. That’s one of the benefits of retirement. But I really don’t want to be a lazy layabout. Every extra hour I spend in bed in the morning is an hour I cannot spend more gainfully. Just think what I
could do with an extra two hours a day – that’s 14 hours a week, 730 hours a year!
At the end of the day (OK, I know, how long it takes to get to the
end of the day will, certainly, depend on how late / early I make it into the Land of the Living) it comes down to how I spend the time I have. I can, for example, spend my extra two hours watching “Australia Down Under” and “Homes
Under the Hammer”. Both of which have, from time to time, supplied Mr B and me with endless topics of conversation on the lines of: “Would we ever have upped and left our family and friends?” and “Do you remember when we had wallpaper
just like that?”
Or I can spend my time doing something of real value to the world. I just need to work out what that might be. Like the Bizzy Lizzies (
flowers after my own heart), I will awake refreshed in the spring, ready for anything and everything.
In the meantime I shall carry on, as now, simply doing my best to delight in the deliciousness
of every day.