The first day of the summer holidays. Is there a lovelier phrase in the English language? Friday and I’m home from work, the music on, waiting for Tracy so we can go to the chip shop. I need a shave. Forget it, I’m on holiday, I’ll grow a beard. I’m bouncing around to the Ramones on Tracy’s exercise ball (c’mon it’s the summer hols) and thinking of all the possibilities. This is the best part; a week of freedom stretched out before you, beckoning. Maybe we should go to the Boogaloo and dance all night. Maybe I should ring up some friends who live round the corner and we should go for a few drinks?
Maybe I should phone Richard and ask if he’s going to be in London this weekend. He texted on Thursday to say he was in Cambridge and Nik Kershaw was playing on the jukebox. I texted back to ask if he was coming to London. No reply. I guess he just needed to communicate the Kershaw problem on the jukebox. Maybe, maybe, maybe. In the end I don’t do anything, we venture no further than the chip shop and back to slob out.
It’s hard to do nothing. Even if you convince yourself you don’t want to do anything the guilt makes it impossible. People say chill out. Saturday, and I don’t venture too far either. I make a few plans for Sunday and Monday but that’s about it. I’ve earned this I tell myself. I can read and watch tv all day if I like. But I can’t. Mr Miyagi wouldn’t approve (is he still called Mr Miyagi in the new Karate Kid?), and besides this three day beard itches so I’m going for a shave now.
Tomorrow, I will be busy.
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