Every Monday morning when my colleagues ask me what I did at the weekend I make myself a promise... Next weekend will be different.
Come next Monday I will report back on my exciting weekend, leaving them not only stunned by the dramatic change, but also completely and utterly jealous.
So far, it hasn't happened.
Every Monday my colleagues are admittedly impressed with the sheer volume of tasks that I can achieve in two days, however it's safe to say that they aren't at all envious.
They spend their days away from the office visiting National Trust properties, attending weddings, and meeting friends at restaurants that I haven't even heard of. In contrast, I spend mine working. And not always the good kind.
Whilst sometimes I get to spend a few hours in front of my laptop watching the word count of my novel grow, this seems to be a rare luxury. Not that my colleagues find it all that luxurious of course. However recently my weekends are taken up by less appealing tasks, such as dragging the vacuum around the house, donning a pair of rubber gloves and scrubbing the bathroom, de-frosting and reorganising the freezer, filling in my tax return, decorating, or tackling some random repair job, like this weeks attempt to resolve a leaking exterior PVC door armed with only a tube of frame sealant and a rapidly depleting amount of patience.
On Sunday night I crawl wearily into bed resentful that the weekend has managed to slip by so fast and depressed that come the morning the week will start all over again. The only saving grace is that I can take comfort in knowing that I have at least crossed off a few items on my to do list.
Frustratingly I then spend the week adding more items to the list, so come the following weekend I don't seem to be any closer to that elusive promise of a weekend of excitement. Mind you at this point I'd just settle for a chance to put my feet up with a nice cup of tea, or maybe something a little stronger.