I'm beginning to dread Fridays. I used to enjoy them, right from my own school days - Friday, when I was in Secondary school, was school orchestra day; we had a string section practice at lunchtime and a ninety minute full orchestra rehearsal after school, not getting home till after 6pm. Despite the hell of managing a violin, in an old-fashioned wooden case, on the bus, along with a heavy school bag (we bought all our books, and had to lug the correct texts plus jotters every day. I sometimes think my squint posture dates from then, rather than child-carrying days: it was cool to balance your bulging case on the hip), these were magical days that I looked forward to all week. I suspect it might have been more normal to look forward to the weekend, but my school life, and especially my extra-curricular one, was intense and absorbing. So yes: for all that time Friday was magical.
Later, as a teacher, there was the relief of two days of peace from bells and huvtaes. (If this is a new word to you, try saying it aloud, and remember I taught in Glasgow and then in Dunoon).I used to be much better at having a long lie, so there was a substantial difference to weekends - and by the time I was in Dunoon, I'd become involved with church, which was quite a change. Fridays had church choir practice for a while, before events overtook us and the choir - I may go into that some day. My children sang, I sang. More Friday music.
Fifteen years ago I retired. Since then, the constant joy of a Friday has been that it's Mr PB's night to cook, and I'm writing this with a glass of wine by my hand and the scent of curry wafting up the stairs. The differences between days became harder to discern, but Fridays were fine.
Not now. For the past few weeks - since our holiday on Arran, in fact - I've done the weekly shop on a Friday. It's fine as a day - the stock is good (though my favourite orange juice was victim of "a supplies issue" today and I had to settle for a lesser variety) and there doesn't tend to be anything pressing as a regular thing to do on a Friday (though the gas man, or gas youth, was here today servicing the fires when I got home). But I find myself strangely stressed by my self-imposed need to be there on the dot of 8am and out again by 9; I sleep less well, I waken early and then drift into unsatisfactorily aware light sleep, I have to get up and get out. Today I forgot the list that alerts me to sudden needs and had to phone to check (so: turn back to the sanitiser station at the end of the aisle, sanitise hands, fish out phone, ring, get Mr PB to read out list, hurry back to the chillis I'd forgotten about, retrieve trolley). And then the struggle to decant it all ... and have breakfast before it's time for 11ses ... and then sit, recovering my sang froid as the house gradually warms up again, Gas Boy having left and heating having gone back on.
No, Friday's ain't what they were.
But on the plus side, a sarky letter I wrote to the local paper was published at the top of the letters page, and the moonrise was rather splendid over the Firth, which is why I'm blipping it. It's rising exactly where the sun rose this morning - hence the title. And that curry awaits ...