Just a perfect day

I had one of the best weekends I’ve had in awhile, the kind that seems to go on for an eternity and which is filled with interesting activities, good times and productiveness. I, for once, didn’t have a case of the Mondays when I woke up this morning. I wasn’t kicking myself for not getting enough done while The Noble Husband was here to help with sproglet duty or feeling as if I had done only mundane, boring things as I usually do on this most annoying of weekdays. Here’s why.

On Friday morning I got some good news (which I will share with the blogosphere in a subsequent post), the weather was good, I took TNC to a play centre where she got to bounce around in one of those inflatable castle things, I met a friend for an afternoon glass of wine and then proceeded to go out and drink approximately nine more gallons of it later that night. I slept until 1.15pm on Saturday. PM, people. As in the afternoon. I haven’t slept past 9am since I was pregnant. That’s how much the wine kicked my ass. I hope I’m not getting an allergy to it like Jen. Who am I kidding? I simply behaved like a 21-year-old bar fly that night and looked at my drinking limit, sized it up and then promptly ignored it in the vain hope that if I shut my eyes and shouted “La la la, I can’t heeeeeear you!” loudly enough, it would go away and leave me alone, much like my husband does when I ask him to clean a surface or replace a bin liner. But the booze will kick your ass every time. That’s one of life’s lessons that is most fiercely learned yet so easily repeated. I suppose the destruction of brain cells will do that.

Saturday was a bit of a write-off but in a good way. Sleeping until 1.15PM (did you see what I typed there? PM. I can’t reiterate this enough) is never a waste when it’s an annual event. And when I finally did emerge from my cavern to take over childcare duties, my daughter proved that she is the best and most intelligent baby on the face of the planet by feeding me grapes while I laid on the sofa. Once I’d recovered, I took to cleaning the flat in a frenzy, perhaps realising that it would be the sole useful thing I would do that day. So when Saturday evening rolled around and I sat watching tv while eating delicious, scrumptious pizza from our local pizzeria, I didn’t feel too guilty.

Speaking of tv, I don’t usually watch much of it (I download the few shows I watch regularly so I’m not a slave to the schedules), especially not BBC2 as it’s known for being the ‘older generation’s’ channel, but the lineup that night was exactly what I was in the mood for. A performance-based reality show (but only because someone we know of was a finalist that night) followed by a bit of Graham Norton (who normally kind of annoys me but that night had me in stitches) and then a great special called “Sgt. Pepper:It Was 40 Years Ago Today…”about the 40th anniversary of the Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album. In the program, artists of today recorded cover versions of each song in the famous Abbey Road studio, using the original four-track equipment and the original sound engineers who were there when The Beatles made that revolutionary concept album. It was fascinating to hear these old guys tell the behinds-the-scenes stories of the album and what the mood of the band was as they recorded each song. I especially enjoyed the Stereophonics version of the Sgt Pepper reprise and The Fray’s rendition of Fixing A Hole. Part 2 airs later this month and I will be eagerly awaiting it.

On Sunday I was up bright and early at 6.30am. The big sleep-a-thon of the previous day had me so well-rested that I didn’t even need to use TNC as an alarm clock, I was up before she had stirred. We went to my in-laws’ house for a delicious brunch (smoked salmon, English muffins, scrambled eggs, mushrooms, bacon, sausages, roasted plum tomatoes, melon, toast and yogurt, all served alongside champagne mimosas and coffee — can you say YUM?!) and then, after lounging around the garden chatting to relatives and flipping through the Sunday papers, Paul and I left for an afternoon of sport. We played tennis, just the two of us, for 45 minutes at the height of the day’s heat, which tested my fitness and endurance, along with my deodorant. Two of our friends then showed up to take us on in doubles but since we were so worn out and they hadn’t warmed up, we switched places and they took over the court while we took over their bicycles and went for a ride along the river. I haven’t been on a bike in….oh, a good four years, I believe, so it was nice (though a little wobbly!). On the return leg, we cycled on a path parallel to the waterfront and happened to encounter a polo match. We stopped to watch with fascination the twenty exquisite horses charging around the green, throwing up chunks of sod as they chased after the object of the men on their back’s desire — the ball, and victory.

As we pushed off on our bikes to head back to the courts for our doubles game, I caught on the breeze one of my favorite scents, the kind that fills me with nostalgia and longing. The ’stable smell’ of horses, mixed with the acrid aroma of sweat, the soft smell of worn leather and the sweetly-scented hay. I breathed it in deeply and exhaled, my eyes half shut in ecstasy, transported to another, more carefree time in my life when all that mattered to me was horses. Even though it’s been years since I’ve ridden, I can still see the gleaming saddles lined up in the tack room, having just been polished; hear the pounding hooves and neighs from adjacent training rings; feel the elation in my soul when the magnificent animal beneath me flows effortlessly from a gentle trot to a rollicking canter, making me think of nothing but fresh air, nature and beauty in motion.

Paul and I won our doubles match (despite my dodgy serve) and then went for a celebratory pint. A pint of beer is never so good as when drunk on a hot day with friends, after exerting oneself in the great out-of-doors. It was a good day, and a great weekend, despite the hangover for most of Saturday. I hope the summer is full of days like yesterday. If I were to be so lucky, I’d never complain about British summers ever again. Or at least until another horrible rain-filled one comes around again.