There is something about Saturday that I love and hate. I love all the end of the week stuff, and not having to get up and out early, not that I do that much anyway, but it is nice to relax. However, what I hate about Saturday is that Saturday makes me kind of neurotic, which I’m not. Ask any of my family, except my husband, and they will reassure you that I am a calm sort of person.
The thing about Saturday; and this is hard to write about, is that all my family, on both sides, died on Saturday. From one o’clock in the afternoon ‘til about half five are the danger hours.
Now I’m a bit of a hypochondriac in my neurotic moments. Looking at ER or Grey’s Anatomy freaks me out. Within hours of the show I have whatever it is the last person died of, even if it is an exotic disease unknown to Ireland. Someone has to be the first to get it.
I like to keep busy on Saturday so I don’t have time to think about the D word. But I usually end up (don’t like that end word much either) exhausted and tired and then I get pains here, there and everywhere and think I’m going into cardiac arrest. Hubby has the phone locked. He’s afraid I’ll call the emergency services. He has no intention of doing it. He says I’m fine. I will live five years longer than he will. I doubt that. He has a longer life gene from both his parents. He says he’ll look after me which reassures me for all of ten minutes, until I remember that I saw him talking to the blond a few doors up, and then I begin to wonder is he really trying to subvert my health care plans.
Anyway another Saturday is done and dusted. Better not mention the Dust word. It goes hand in hand with that other D word.
Roll on Sunday. And really Monday is not too bad either.