I think I might have to start lying about what I’ve been up to at the weekend.
Sunday night is upon us, and as I reflect over the past 2 days, I’m a touch concerned at what confronts me.
Saturday night saw a roast chicken, red wine, X-Factor and an early night.
Friday night I didn’t even bother with the wine.
How can I face the Monday morning office interrogation?
“What did you do this weekend Rachel?” “Why, thanks for asking, esteemed colleague. This weekend I shouted at the TV, shampooed the carpet and did two loads of laundry.”
Time to get the story straight.
Perhaps I had a couple of romantic meals, a night out filled with riotous merriment and debauchery and, hey guess what – I rounded off the weekend with a spontaneous Sunday night dinner party with the neighbours.
Confessing that in reality I lay on the sofa in joggers and a blanket will not do. There’s no harm in engaging in a touch of image management.
Besides, I’m not yet quite ready to admit to myself that these days, if I go out for an evening raving, I need two days of rest to recover.
So for now I’ll keep up the charade. No-one needs to know I’m middle-aged just yet.
But maybe we’re all the same. What did you do this weekend? Front-row seats at the theatre? A meal out with happy, carefree friends at a Michelin-starred restaurant? Or maybe a night of cocktails and dancing?
Did you? Did you hell. Admit it - you’ve been sitting in, watching Gary and the gang, just like me.
Well thank goodness for that.
Now if you could just keep it down for one more evening, I’ve got a hot date with Downton to keep.