The Joke Was On Me

I am a dreamer.

Not a day dreamer you understand - nor do I indulge in aspirational dreaming. I am just a simple dreamer of incredible dreams.

Don’t you find that there is nothing more tedious than listening to other people accounts of their dreams? So I can appreciate why no one wants to hear about mine but my dreams are so vivid, so detailed and sometimes life altering.

In my dreams I run so fast that I leap and soar through the air. Not flying exactly but almost. I’m almost sure that a couple of weeks ago I actually levitated.  In my dreams I create inventions that change the world. I am a genius when I sleep. In my dreams I make wonderful love to the most expert of lovers and have incredible orgasms. I am a sex goddess when I sleep.

Sometimes my dreams are not so good. I often dream about him and his violence. But when I do I then have the indescribable pleasure of waking up in the sanctuary of my own bed in my own bedroom, surrounded by my things and, heart still pounding, throw back my covers and lie naked taking contentment in being free.

I had a recent dream in which I was a stand-up comedian. A very successful one, who also, I am proud to say, wrote all her own material. The fear I felt backstage before going on and launching into my routine was very real as was the pleasure of hearing the rapturous applause when I delivered my final knicker wetting  funny line. I was very funny and on the verge of stardom when I woke up and the funny routines faded from my memory in seconds and I missed the chance of sitting next to Lee Mack on ‘Would I Lie to You?’ A game show that, on reflection, I would be useless at as I can never tell when people are lying.

I am accepting.

My hands are not clean and if I am to write about lying I have to be honest and admit that I have been known to tell the occasional lie. Who hasn’t? Even the Pope may have exaggerated on his CV. I suppose being raised as a Catholic gives you a ‘get out of jail free card’ in as much as there is always the option of confession. Growing up I could lie all week and then confess on Saturday and, after a few ‘Hail Marys’ I would be absolved of sin.  It is almost worth the eternal guilt Catholics are lumbered with.  As a grown up I’m not talking about the lies you tell to explain why you haven’t done something you should have done. I’m talking about the lies you tell when you have done something you should not have done. Like cheat on your partner when you have said that you wouldn’t.

I am a hypocrite.

But that does not exclude me from having an opinion about liars and cheaters or from being a tiny bit judgemental of liars and cheats. Even if I have dabbled a toe in those murky waters on occasion.

My man is a good man.

An' I don't want much outa life,

I never wanted a mansion in the south.

I just-a want to find someone sincere

Who'd treat me like he talks,

One good man.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yIHgZHDJlZY

How would I feel if my good man cheated on me?

 Disappointed.

How would I feel if my good man lied to me about it?

 Devastated.

We could find our way back from the first but not from the second.

I would naively assume that he cheated on me for the same reasons I have cheated on a partner in the past. I cheated when I no longer loved or respected the person I was with. Doing the decent thing, such as leaving, was not an option at the time so I did what I had to do. Who knows - had I not cheated I may have done something a million times worse?  If my good man cheated, knowing our relationship is in its ascension, I would have to consider that my reasons for cheating may not be the same as someone else’s.  I would be happy to explore his reasons and decide if we could continue to have such a special, unique relationship as the one we currently enjoy knowing that he placed his penis in some other woman’s vagina. This is pretty much forgivable. The hurtful part of infidelity is not the sex act itself – it’s the additional stuff like feelings, emotions, obsessions and lies that inflict damage.

My good man and I enjoy a relationship based on liking each other a great deal, sharing similar interests,  wanting to spend time together making love, talking, laughing and supporting each other. I respect him, admire him and am glad he is in my life. We share more than a physical intimacy. So it would depend on the stories he wove around the physical act of betrayal and it is the extent and depth of those stories that have the power to destroy – not the act of fucking someone.

I have a friend who has been married for 30 years. And he has cheated since about year 5. Some of his dalliances have been one night stands, and sometimes he thinks he has fallen in love and the dalliances are more longer term. I was one of his long term dalliances and during that time we fucked a thousand times and yet I would put money on his wife being more hurt about the things he said to me during the 40 years of our friendship than she would be about the years of sex we enjoyed. He has said things, wrote things and did things, like not telling her he was in the country, so we could spend uninterrupted time together. He continues to speak to me in a loving way although the physical acts of intimacy no longer take place. The lies he told her to enable his dalliances to happen are endless and unforgiveable. He still lies to her about me and, if we are to meet for a drink and chat he has to create an elaborate excuse and I just have to tell my good man I am meeting an ex-lover for a drink. He has made his wife’s whole adult life a sham and that is selfish and cruel. And yes I hold my hands up for being complicit in that. Why does he cheat? Low self-esteem? Lack of a moral compass? He is gorgeous so sex is readily available to him? His wife isn’t a sexual being or doesn’t understand him?  He is shallow? I doubt he even realises his life, and his loves, are a sham.

When I cheated on my partner it was because he was a bully and I was very very unhappy. Cheating was my revenge for every punch and kick. Cheating was a response to my lack of self-esteem.  I would have loved to be honest with him but I would have been risking much more than my family life.

‘They’ do say that what goes around comes around so it was on the cards that I would be betrayed by someone I considered to be a very good friend. Someone who I had known for many years and admired and respected enormously.  He betrayed on me with someone I also considered a good friend and, it turns out, their relationship more or less ran parallel to ours. Their affair wasn’t just sex. He fell in love with her but did not have the decency to tell me. It went on for years before I came to suspect and, when I did, his denials were robust. ‘Why would I have an affair when we are so happy?’ he would ask. As evidence he would cite all the times in the past when he had ‘overlapping relationships’ as he was honestly convinced he was not a serial cheat. He claimed he only got involved with another woman when the relationship he was in was in its dying moments and his current woman was only too aware of her deficiencies as he would try, like the decent caring human being he was, to make things work before he embarked on something new. The fact their affair began while our relationship was still in its infancy belies this claim. To be fair I wasn’t surprised he cheated. Cheating was his MO and when we first got together he was cheating on his then partner, a wonderful woman much better than either of us and one who did not deserve our selfish actions. What is it about love and lust that makes us think that all’s fair blah blah blah? Knowing what we did should mean that I should have been prepared for the extent of his lies. At the time he was telling me he found our mutual friend unattractive and not at all sexy he was relentlessly pursuing her.  When he was telling me he found her clingy and needy he was telling her he loved her and heaven knows what lies he was telling her about me although, from what she has shared I can guess at what they were. Their affair had been going on for years before I found out the truth which I eventually did years after our sham relationship ended.  My first reaction was one of shear relief swiftly followed by a ridiculous feeling of vindication. I was right all along. I wasn’t mad, stupid or even jealous. I was intuitive and right. By that time I no longer cared about how they had both betrayed me – if you fall out of love with someone and in love with someone else it can’t be helped and who am I to stand in the way of true love? But the lies he told devastated me. In a funny way I understood her lies – I had been there myself after all and her lies did not have any impact on what had passed between me and him during the times we laid together. I felt such a gullible fool and any good memories I did have become tainted as they were all false. Nothing that had passed between us had ever had any value or meaning.  Every action, every touch, every smile, every kiss, every fuck, every word, spoken and written, was false and meaningless. We had a sham relationship and as a result a long standing friendship, which included a professional battle for the truth and reason against a machine of destruction, was sacrificed not because he fell in love with someone else or because I was an unreasonable jealous Bermondsey girl  but because he did not have the courage or the decency to tell me the truth which would have enabled me to walk away with dignity and some fond memories.

At least my sham life only lasted for a couple of years unlike S’s wife who has lived a lie for decades. Funnily enough my sham years were also the start of my metamorphosis stage and the beginning of my search for enlightenment. They coincided with my time of escape from a life of confinement. So I can now track my life as the confinement years, the sham years, the growth years and now I am in my contentment years.

I intend to be honest, if not monogamous (because who knows what is around the corner) with my good man and I hope he will be the same. I will never allow anyone to take away from me my freedom to choose, or my sense of contentment ever again. Nor will I take those things away from them. It is, after all, how grown up enlightened people behave.

Luckily my good man and I are both unconventional enough for the contentment years to be full of adventure. And I am having the last laugh.

 

 

The First Time

This week the trial of the teacher accused of abducting his 15 year old pupil has taken place and he was sentenced to 5 years. Today the papers are full of 'news' that the girl is going to wait for him and they will marry on his release. I'm not going to discuss the rights or wrongs of his sentence although it does seem extreme given the sentence given this week to Stuart Hall for sex offences against girls as young as 9 years old. My own stance is that the teacher abused his position and he has a very small mouth so obviously can't be trusted. Both sets of parents in this case should also look at their reactions and what messages they are sending to their children. The teachers parents are blaming his wife for being difficult and demanding, his employer for being not being supportive enough and the police for not confiscating their son's mobile phone. The girls parents are blaming each other and the mother has said that her daughter is dead to her. Whoever is to blame, assuming this is the girls first sexual relationship, her 'first time' is going to be memorable to her for all the wrong reasons.

My first time was one of the most beautiful experiences of my life and I am eternally grateful to my first lover for being the most perfect lover.

Keith was about thirteen when I first met him. Well, he was about eight when I first became aware of him as an annoying member of an annoying group of boys who sometimes interrupted our games or shouted things at me and my group of friends if we wandered into 'their' part of the estate. We all lived on a housing estate of tower blocks divided by a road. The girls side of the road had two of the blocks and the boys side of the road had three blocks and all the shops and the tenants hall which held the youth club. So inevitably our paths crossed for several years before I finally met him. I can't remember exactly when the two groups joined up but the boys started to hang around our side of the road and we started to spend all our time together playing games such as runouts, building camps in the empty underground garages and listening to the top twenty every Sunday afternoon on a transistor radio. The estate was by then about 5 years old and was, at the time, quite a futuristic design. It was a celebration of concrete and stone. The blocks were 20 floors high and had a lower and upper ground in addition to that. They also had underground garages. Given that they were build in the 1960s when not many working class people had cars if seems strange that these, what must have been very costly, huge, cavernous garages were build given that new developments today, when most families have cars, do not include many car parking spaces. Each garage was the size of a small flat and very few were used so we had the run of this space. The upper ground housed scores of sheds intended for storage of prams and bikes. This became our snogging area.

Despite growing up in this sea of concrete (there was very little grass and no play area for children) we had an amazing childhood playing out in this adventure playground. We must have driven some of the neighbours mad, hanging out on stairwells and landings and sometimes we would be chased away but with 100 landings to chose from we never became anti social enough to cause people stress apart from the time the boys smashed the same woman's window while playing cricket on the upper ground three times in one week. Cricket was then banned from the upper ground but even today, if you look closely enough, the painted cricket stumps can still be seen on the wall below the 1st floor flats windows.

Keith was beautiful. In fact I am sure he still is because he possessed incredibly fine bone structure. His cheekbones were high and well defined, his chin strong with obligatory cleft, his mouth wide and filled with the straightest, whitest teeth (these in the days before cosmetic dentistry). His hair was chestnut brown, shiny and flopped beautifully over his forehead. He was blessed with the smoothest skin which tanned perfectly in the summer, and over one glorious summer, (this was the 70s when summers were always glorious, Keith shot up from being the same height as me to being over 6ft tall.) It took me sometime to realise that my mate had become an Adonis over night. One day he was a skinny kid with a monkey face and the next day he was the most beautiful boy any of us had ever seen. And these were the days when teenage girls walls were covered in posters of David Cassidy, Donny Osmond, David Essex and, for me, David Bowie. When, many years later, I first saw the actor Josh Harknett I thought this boy must be Keith's son so alike were they. When we were 13 (Keith was my first toy boy being 1 day younger than me, which actually mattered at that age)  he asked me out and I accepted. This dating just meant that we got to snog. In the aforementioned sheds. Sadly he wasn't my first kiss. That had happened a few months before hand with an older boy I'd met at a disco in Hackney Town Hall. Not only was that the night of my first kiss (a full on French kiss) it was my first experience of Chinese food as he bought me a spring roll. I was Keith's first kiss though and his wide mouth almost swallowed my face. As I was the experienced kisser at this stage I certainly felt his technique could be improved and made it my mission to work on his skill. This kissing class continued for some weeks until I had my head turned by some boy called Ian, whose round face was covered in acne, at the school disco and asked Keith's best friend Steve (who became, many years later the love of my life although that is a different story) to tell Keith it was over. We still all hung round together and a couple of summers later I dated Steve for a while until I had my head turned by Ricky, who had a glass eye, but this time I was older and wiser and managed to dump Steve myself. Not long after this Keith and I hooked up together and when we were 17 we 'went all the way'.

For weeks we had very heavily petted and indulged in lots of oral sex but so scared was I of becoming pregnant we did everything but have full sex. I visited the family planning clinic, was given the pill and was told I had to take them for two weeks before they would be effective. Those two weeks were the longest of our lives as Keith and I ticked of the days to 'Going All The Way Day'. When it eventually arrived and Keith tried to enter me we were mortified to find his penis was far too big to ever fit inside me and we lay together almost in tears until I had the brainwave of getting on top and, by being in control, managed to ease him inside. From that moment Keith and I never had another conversation. All we did was fuck. We had discovered the most wonderful thing in the world. Our relationship continued for months after this day in March 1977 until November 1977. Looking back we were both lost in a sexual quest to discover more about this amazing pastime and to not waste a single second by going out or having conversations. The last time we made love was on the 5 November 1977 and the next day I met Jimmy and I made another of my poor choices.

I have such wonderful memories of my first time. It was with a friend who I loved very much and who loved me. It was with someone who was so beautiful he took my breath away. We were well matched sexually and became lost in one another.

Keith and I lost spoke about 10 years ago. Not long after I met Jimmy Keith emigrated to Australia where he has a successful career and a beautiful family. We spoke on the phone and he sounded like an Australian. The only time he sounded like my Keith was when he laughed and , when I heard his laugh, I was transported back to the 1970s and we were hanging out on the estate laughing at some prank one of us had carried out.

This week I had an email from my form tutor who taught me from the ages of 11 to 16. Mr C was only 10 years older than the youngest children he taught when he joined the school in 1971. He was a fantastic teacher who made me love school, love learning and inspired me to work hard. Never once did Mr C abuse his position. We have stayed in touch and it is great to hear how much he is enjoying his retirement and his grandchildren.

I have certainly been luckier that the young girl in the news this week. My first time was memorable for all the right reasons and the most important teacher in my life has had a positive amount of influence on my life and one that still continues over 40 years later.

Certainly I have made wrong decisions over the years and indulged in relationships that I should have avoided but because I had a great start in my sexual relationship life for which I'm eternally grateful sex has never been a problem. It remains, for me, one of the greatest celebrations of human contact.

http://www.thecinemasource.com/blog/interviews/josh-hartnett-interview-for-the-black-dahlia/
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2346607/Jeremy-Forrest-dark-place-marriage-abducted-schoolgirl-say-parents-blame-crimes-depressed.html
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/05/13/losing-virginity-stories-11-women-first-time-having-sex_n_3267987.html

Don't compromise yourself. You are all you've got. Janis Joplin

One of my good friends grew up in a very deprived area of South London and attended one of its roughest schools where she was bullied relentlessly. She left school, literally battered and bruised, as soon as she could, without any qualifications, and became pregnant at 17. Once her son started school she began volunteering in his school and was eventually offered a job as a teaching assistant. Today she is head of a service in an outer London local authority in one of the most deprived areas of the country. The other day, discussing my being short listed for yet another job that I feel is actually way out of my league, I asked her why I keep putting myself through this. 'Because you have something to prove - just like me' she said.
 
Lying in bed that night thinking about what she said, I realised that, sadly, she was right.

The questions I now ask myself are why? Who to? And how do I change my thinking? Because constantly feeling inadequate is incredibly stressful and damaging.
 
Like me she wasn't really expected to do well academically. Her parents, like my mum, just wanted her to get a job when she left school. She got a job as a cashier in a bank and I started a hairdressing apprenticeship - neither role demanding much of the grey matter. Although we didn't know each other at the time we both ended up working in our children's schools and we both came to realise that we were just as 'clever' as the young middle class people who were teaching our children and, in some cases, even 'cleverer'.
 
Yet, each of us in our respective school, washed out the paint pots, sharpened the pencils and heard the children read. Over the years, as our skills and knowledge increased, we became familiar with how children learn and how to make that learning interesting. We gained experience in how to manage behaviour and how to inspire some of the most needy children in the class. We applied for any training that was available and happily took on new challenges. Yet no matter how much we learnt, how much experience we had we were never 'good enough'. We didn't have the degrees and the certificates that proved we were capable and would have ensured we were paid a decent wage and had some job security.
 
My friend, after being made to feel inadequate one time too many, eventually left to work in a local authority and it was there that her intelligence, flair and experience was finally recognised and she rose through the ranks to her current position of service manager where she has to manage a large multidisciplinary team of front line workers, she has to plan strategically for change and she is in charge of a multi million pound budget with a huge responsibility to the tax payer. She now feels she has 'proven' herself although she still yearns for a degree.

Schools are very hierarchical institutions and it took me a bit longer than my friend to realise I was undervalued, and along the way I managed to pick up a degree, but even then I was still looked down on by the professionals. Some in a very obvious way and some unintentionally. 
 
Since leaving the school job (madly enjoyable most of the time but with no hope of progression and paid peanuts) I have climbed the corporate ladder and have my sights set on a new position that I have little hope of getting, mainly because the fact that I'm not good enough may be picked up and, in addition, several of the other applicants are teachers - even an ex head teacher is applying. Over the last few years I have applied for several jobs and, after several intense and difficult interviews, have been offered them all except one. Each time I think 'Well. that's that. Can't quite believe they bought all that and I'm going to work hard and stay in this job until they either get rid of me or I retire.' And then another job, a bit further up the ladder and paying a bit more money presents itself and I find myself stressing over the application form. Then the anxious wait to see if I have been short listed begins followed by preparing for the interview presentation and rehearing my STAR stories. All the time thinking 'why the fuck? I love my job and can live on the money I earn so why. the. fuck. am I putting myself through this?' Well now I know.
 
I have something to prove.
 
So now I need to figure out who I have something to prove to.
 
My friend has something to prove to her bullies. To family members who wrote her off for getting pregnant while still in her teens. To the teachers whose classroom she washed paint pots. To the ex teachers and education psychologists she now manages, to everyone she knows who has a degree and to herself.
 
I was never bullied at school. True, I was never the most popular girl in class until, in what is now known as Year 6, I had my hair cut in a 'feathered style', which teemed with my suede hotpants, meant I was suddenly a bang on trend 11 year old and from that day on all the boys and girls wanted to be my friend. This is likely to be why hair and clothes have always been a passion of mine. I suppose this also fed into the assumption I was just a dumb blonde. Anyway I have no enemies from childhood and no old school friends I need to impress. As I'm still in touch with the ones I liked and, as they know how difficult my childhood was, I think they are impressed I'm not a druggie or an alcoholic.

I don't think I am trying to prove anything to my mother. I grew up being told by her I was useless, thick, ugly and unwanted. I don't believe any of those things and I know my mother well enough to know that I could never please her or make her proud. She just doesn't have those functions. She is damaged somehow and is never going to be fixed and I gave up years ago trying to find the switch that, if I flicked it to the 'on' position would make her a nicer person.

Am I trying to prove it to the teachers I used to work with?

Funnily enough I am now managing one of the teachers I once sharpened pencils for. Is she impressed? Is she fuck!
 
I have a degree. Not a great one - sort of lost interest in it in my final year as life as I knew it fell apart, but a degree nonetheless and, sadly, degrees are CV currency at the moment.
 
So I think the person I need to prove something to is me.
 
If that is the case shouldn't I just be able to look in the mirror and say something self affirming?

'Remember, you are a beautiful person in your own unique way. And you are valuable, worthy and lovable.'

Hmmm. Not my cup of tea.

Interesting article this month on self-affirmation in Huff -

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/05/02/self-affirmation-problem-solving-chronic-stress_n_3194437.html
 
It may help that I have recognised, through my friends comment, that I am at risk of chasing something I don't actually want just to prove to myself I am 'good enough'. It would be more sensible for me to try some Buddhist Affirmations rather than expose myself.
 

Today and every  day, I am committed to my meditation practice.

Today my inner lotus blossoms, as I release attachments and turn my face to the sun.

Today I seek enlightenment. Today I experience enlightenment. Today I am enlightened

Today I clearly see the beauty in a flower and my whole world changes.

Today I am practising right view in all my thoughts, words, and actions.

Today I am practising right intention with all my thoughts, words, and actions.

Today I am practising right speech with every word I say.

Today I am practising right action with everything I do.

I am the very embodiment of love and compassion in all my interactions with others.

Breathing in, I feel peace. Breathing out, I am peace.

The following link promises to be even more useful - 
 
 http://tinybuddha.com/blog/how-to-change-your-mind-and-your-life-by-using-affirmations/

Carpe Crap

If this were an 8 day week then today would be Newday and I would have an extra day in my week off work. As it stands I only have today and tomorrow left and I've only achieved half of what I had planned to do. So what have I managed to do? Get a haircut, finish my book and visit Soccer School.

Soccer School is a truly awful place.

Two Astroturf pitches in a huge cold warehouse filled with dirty smelly boys  of varying ages and lots of shouting. After my grandsons first day I thought he would be reluctant to spend another day in this hellhole doing nothing but kicking a ball about. I picked him up on his first day and was ridiculously early so rather than wait in the car I foolishly thought I would go inside the building and watch. The building was huge, cold and ugly. Behind wire grills I could see scores of boys and struggled to see my tiny grandson among the bigger boys dressed in a variety of team colours. I finally managed to spot my grandson in his Barcelona kit. I had never seen him look so dirty. Even his Sunday morning games in muddy fields don't make him look as if he has just finished a shift down a coalmine. In the car on the way home he was tired, hungry and grouchy and absolutely itching to get back to the school the next day. By the third day he was asking his mum if he could attend soccer school fulltime instead of going back to his mainstream school. 'I thought you loved your school.' his mum said. 'I did but it is getting so boring. All they go on about is phonics and we all know them.'

While I was watching two boys got into an argument and blows were exchanged. The trainers spoke to them about their behaviour and put them in 'time out'. The two boys sat together watching the others continuing to play and they were totally focused on the game. They sat quietly together, clearing itching to get back into the action, and when they were allowed to play again they stood up, shook hands, and joined in without another bad word between them. I spoke to one of the trainers afterwards and asked him about how they manage behaviour with a large group of boys aging from 6 - 11, most of who do not know each other and who play for, or support, rivalling teams. He told me that any bad behaviour is dealt with on day one and subsequently they rarely have any problems. 'The love of the game and the joy they feel playing overrides any frustrations they may have to begin with' he said. 'Even rivalry is forgotten when they start to appreciate each other’s skill'.

Pity this feeling doesn't happen around phonics.

Daytime TV makes me glad I am in full time employment although I did watch a couple of films. I rarely watch films these days and both these films were pretty awful although they did have good story lines. One, made for TV film, had the interesting storyline and a good twist so despite the poor acting, and the gaps in the story, I didn’t feel I’d totally wasted a couple of hours of my life but the other one, despite having a good story line and a great opening line, was a huge disappointment.  A classic film noir, D.O.A failed to live up to my (pretty low) expectations.  A murder victim has a matter of hours, days (maybe two weeks, no one could say for sure) to find his killer before the poison administered by the murderer kills him. He spends the rest of the film rushing around which worried me as I assumed this would ‘pump’ the poison around his body quicker reducing the time he had in which to find his poisoner.  In addition to finding his murderer the film shows his slow realisation that he really does love his devoted and loyal secretary and he has been a bit of a prick to her in the past.  I was quite pleased when he died in the final scene as he wasn’t a character you could warm to and the secretary, whilst now unfortunately out of a job, could do much better in the love stakes.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D.O.A._(1950_film)

Talking of jobs I have the task, today or tomorrow, of applying for a new job.  Filling in application forms can take a couple of hours and because of this I have been putting it off and watching crap films instead. Or writing crap blogs. Kidding myself that I work better when working towards a dealine. The poison of 'lost opportunity' is enough to spur me on. Enough procrastination. Carpe Diem.

http://www.psychologytoday.com/articles/201109/procrastination-oops-where-did-the-day-go

 

  

 

Saturn Day and Newday

Those who know me well know how much I love Saturday mornings. A chance to, upon waking, lie in bed and contemplate the universe and the meaning of life or to do more productive things. It also gives me the rare opportunity to just be awake in my bedroom.

When I eventually get up (not too late as the days of sleeping all morning are long gone - I now feel as if I'm wasting a day if I sleep after 10am) I love the Saturday morning 'pottering about' stage which I realise, makes me sound really old. But 'pottering about', especially while wearing a dressing gown, is a vastly underrated activity. Some people do their pottering on a Sunday. But the danger of pottering on Sundays is that the pottering stage goes on for far too long and this IS NOT A GOOD THING. Saturday pottering only lasts about an hour before you have to stop pottering  and actually start doing things.

Some Saturday mornings I do housework. This really depends on how the week has been and what houseworky things have  already been done.  I put on some music and wash and dust until my home is clean and shiny and I feel as if I have had a bit of a workout. Then I can get on with my plans for the day which is usually to see friends or family and  just enjoy not being at work.

This morning, in the contemplation stage of my routine I had an idea.

The 8 day week.

Like most of my brainwaves I soon discover that someone had already beat me to it. In this case the concept had been tried out ages ago. The Romans used the 8 day 'Market Week' for a period of time. Of course I had been aware of the various calenders that humanity have created over time but hadn't realised that before settling on the one we have our ancestors had been very experimental. Even the bloody Beatles sang about the 8 day week 50 years ago. They failed to mention planets or the impact on the economy or the advantages or disadvantages of having an extra day in the week but focused on the extra day of love. They should have considered the impact of this extra day of loving on ones physical and mental health and thrown in a 9th day for recovery.

http://www.lyricsfreak.com/b/beatles/eight+days+a+week_10026469.html

There are some people already living in their own 8 day week.

http://www.theeightdayweek.com/

However unlike theeightdayweek which involves shortening the days my concept was for an extra whole day that everyone in the world has. Mainly because all the extra days pay at the end of the longer month would be very welcome. It would surely help the economy as whenever a day of work is lost through strikes or because of the weather the news always reports that the lost day has cost the economy millions so surely an extra week day will pour millions into the economy. We will all have extra money at the end of the week to spend.

Children will get an extra day of learning so will become cleverer, the school holidays will be longer so the teachers will be happy and football fixtures will be easier to arrange.

I would have time to read my emails.

There will be an extra day between my weighing at Weight Watchers so I will lose even more weight each week.

We will all get longer in which to repay loans.

Mortgages will be over a longer time span so more people will be able to buy their own homes.

And best of all we will all stay younger longer. If this had started the year I was born I would only be in my 40s now.

There are even suggestions of a 10 day week. I was having trouble thinking of a name for my extra week day and eventually decided on 'Newday' so I was delighted to discover that the Archetype Calender has already names for all the extra days.

http://www.hermetic.ch/cal_stud/arch_cal/arch_cal.htm

Someone, of course would have to be made Minister of Newday, so that they could make sure people did not abuse it. There would have to be 'Newday Regulations' in order to make it work. For example -

Zero Interest to be added for the Newday for existing loans

Those who can work from home do so on Newdays

Business emails can be read, but not responded to, on Newdays

Newday curriculum at schools to focus on philosophy and the community

Minimum pay to be increased by 10% for those who work on Newday

Newday tax relief for low paid Newday workers

No soap omnibus' on Newday

To make things easier Newday will have to be slotted between Wednesday and Thursday. That way we still get the TGIF feeling.

Happy Saturn Day x