Weekends and holiday are, for me, a time to have a lie in. As I get out of bed at 6.30am during the week, I think this is perfectly justified.
My dad rises at silly o’clock in the morning every day of the year to walk Labradors. He continually tries to make me feel guilty about “lying in bed all day”. As long as I manage to surface before midday, I think I’m doing OK; 10am to 10.30am is a good time to get up.
I can’t understand these people who say: “Once I’m awake, that’s it, I have to get up.” I don’t; I can roll over repeatedly and close my eyes and my ears against the cats as they try to persuade me out of bed with purrs and prods with their paws. It is very rare that they’re badgering me because they’re hungry; nine times out of ten, they have food in their bowls. They are, I think, just being awkward. “We’re awake so you should be too,” appears to be the message. Unlike them, though, I don’t spend the rest of the day lolling around and preening.
A couple of friends have been riding along the beach at 7am this weekend to avoid the traffic and the tourists. I would’ve loved to have gone too, but I just couldn’t drag myself out from under the duvet. However, I don’t have a choice about tomorrow’s early start: I have been press-ganged into moonlighting for the day.