As a child I remember looking forwards to the weekends, but thinking back now, they weren’t the best times. Age eleven, I was miserable in my secondary school and Friday teatimes were wonderful. No school for two whole days. Saturday morning and I would will my parents to forget about my piano lesson. If it wasn’t mentioned, it didn’t exist. It didn’t work. The fated hour would be nearly upon me and I would be transported by my dad’s car to the home of the horrible man, subject of nightmares. I would sit rigid and hit the keys hard in a display of my anger. I hated every moment and each week I promised myself I would speak out and it would be my last. I never did. Sundays were bath, hair wash, Sunday School then the rest of the day would be family time. We would either be visiting or having visitors. It was always good and remained so until after tea. That was when the worry started. The sinking feeling of dreading school tomorrow, remembering the piece of unfinished homework, the maths I hadn't understood, the poem I forgot to learn by heart, the items for cookery I didn't ask for. I don't know why I looked forward to weekends at all.
In adult life, weekends offered a mix of welcome rest time after a hard week at work and being out and about socialising. A day out or sometimes a whole weekend away would be a good way to relax and enjoy something or somewhere different.
Becoming parents changed the way we planned weekends.
Activities for the children were a priority even if it was just a play on the
park and an ice cream. Junior football became my pet hate. I love the game, I
always have, but some awful parents I encountered made my blood boil. It would
upset me to witness five and six year old little lads having fun running with
the ball, being seriously shouted at because they haven’t yet developed the
skills some parents expected them to be born with. I would dread the times I
had to take our little lad on my own. I would stand watching, keeping to myself.
Since retirement, the days are much the same and weekends
disappear almost completely. We know it is Saturday when there’s a home match
on and we’re in our places at Bloomfield Road. My husband is once again on the
touchline at grassroots level, taking our football playing middle grandson to
his matches. We’re starting to plan a few short breaks away with our caravan,
but we tend to go midweek when places are quieter, so I suppose that becomes a
kind of ‘weekend’ for us.
I remember Mackintosh’s Weekend, a boxed collection of mixed
chocolates and posh sweets. They would be my mum’s and rarely shared. It’s the
first thing I thought of when I saw the theme for this blog, so I had to
mention it.
Somewhere in the night
There’s a heart that beats so fast
I can feel the heat
Of the fire in your eyes,
Burning like a naked flame,
Waiting for the ice to break,
Counting down the days,
Waiting for the weekend.
Lonely is the night.
Silence is a friend to walk with,
With no one else to talk to.
Somewhere in the heat
There’s a heart that beats so fast
I can hear your voice,
Talk to me tonight.
Thanks for reading, Pam x
3 comments:
I remember those Friday nights (and Saturdays), curling up in bed and knowing there was no school tomorrow. Weekends never seemed long enough. As for the chocolates, they were very 60s, too many candies in the box for my liking (all those fruit jellies and green cream things). Not that we ever had them except at Christmas and birthdays.
A rather sad read, Pam. Oh yes. It's not the hope, it's the week-ends that kills you (lol). We looked forward to them so much and then they were over just like that!
For me as a teenager they were even shorter as we had school on Saturday mornings as well - so my week-end didn't start until 1pm... favourite lunch of liver and bacon with tons of fried onions, mash and gravy, then along the road to watch Cambridge City play (if they were at home), or into town to buy an Airfix kit if not. Sunday was church in the morning and in the evening, with the week-end homework squeezed in between, and we weren't allowed tv or newspapers on the sabbath.
Looking back, it doesn't sound as though week-ends were much fun, but then I never knew any different and didn't really mind. Fortunately, unlike you, I never dreaded going back to school on the Monday.
I don't really remember WEEK-END chocolates. I think if we ever had a box as a rare treat it was probably GOOD NEWS or MILK TRAY.
Luckily I've never had to endure the shouting of parents at their children at football matches. Why do they do it.
Your week-ends sound awful.
I do remember the chocolates now that you have mentioned them.
Good idea to have mid week week-ends.
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