Weekends

I am not alone in my love for the weekend. Once Wednesday is clear, one can officially start to get excited about the weekend. By Thursday (especially after answering the phones for James O'Brien's Mystery Hour) I am eager with anticipation, and in many ways, Friday is better than the weekend itself (in the way that Christmas Eve is sometimes better than the big day itself).

But this weekend just gone was not one that was eagerly anticipated. And, I am ashamed to say it, a big reason behind this was that the beloved boyfriend was gallavanting about Nottingham with a gang of university friends. Leaving me alone.

Normally, I would take this as a golden opportunity to go to Bath, Manchester, Wigan, even Scotland to visit the sister, friends, Deda. But alas, I was tied to London because my parents, also away (their chosen holiday destination.... Israel - yes I too was slightly concerned, but touch wood they seem fine) had enlisted my help in the feeding and petting of their two cats (George and Dorrit - utterly adorable, but sadly very determined in their dislike for me).

But I decided that I would make the best of this tiny window (tiny in the sense of the rest of my life, but seemingly huge on Thursday) of opportunity and really just embrace all the nice things to do in the capital.

Friday was spent in the pub with good friends, and then in a tapas restaurant with the friend good enough to stick out the drinking, and subsequently share my great need for tapas food. And Saturday was one of the most beautiful days of the year so far (although fiercely cold). In fact it was, in my head, the proper start of sping, and therefore I started the day with my family's famous poem

Spring has sprung
the grass has ris
I wonder where the birdies is

Not Shakespeare I know, but a tradition all the same.

And then I went and sat in my Aunty's lovely kitchen. She made homemade scotch eggs (I do not like scotch eggs, I really really do not - but my god, these were like eating a little bit of heaven and did WONDERS for my hangover) and homemade bread, and generally spoilt me in a way that seems disgustingly self-indulgent to someone brought up by a singly dad, whose rare cooking attempts often resulted in mass evacuation of the house due to smoke inhalation, apologies to the neighbours for the fire alarm, and serious tummy ache.

And then I had to feed the cats. But they actually let me pick them up. Plus points.

Drinks with a housemate, and more drinks out. Nothing too manic, but just enough mojitos to merit a box of chicken nuggets on the way home. And then bed, not too late, and then on Sunday up, not too early. Lazing in bed with a brilliant book, a mug of lady grey, and a jammy dodger.

And then it was time for the traditional route of the farmer's markets - Brixton (still not as great as many, but it is a new one, and is steadily getting better - Post Office Bakery does the BEST almond croissants in the world) and then Queen's Park. Queen's Park's farmer's market is really up there in Farmer's Market Royalty. It is big, varied, busy and you can definitely get a bargain or two if you are prepared to haggle. And there is a cake stall which is what my own personal paradise will hopefully look like (alongside some nachos, and some of Aunty Louise's scotch eggs).

And then suddenly, the part of the weekend I had been desperate for (The Boyfriend's return) was upon me. And we managed to get be on the same train, him getting on at Victoria and me getting on at Clapham, and I felt so so happy to see him. He was back, and we still had half of Sunday. He was back, and him being away for the weekend was over. Just like that.