A day spent in men's pyjamas, drinking fresh coffee and reading; the sort of Sunday that I allow in my daydreams, but which in reality often leaves me restless and annoyed at myself for missing out on the day. But today the world outside my window is shot in black and white, and however appealing fresh air and a stretch may be, I am tiring of the cold, and tiring of arriving home wet, numb and reluctant to be outside ever again.
For me, this sort of day takes practise. Practise at balancing indulgence with necessity. But the busier my weeks get and the less time I spend reading, writing and sitting with a mug of tea, the less reluctant I am to avoid these extremes of downtime. Tomorrow it will all begin again, and I'll be grateful for those chapters of my book which would have otherwise remained unread.