Bath night!

Sunday, the day of rest, the day that you know you can’t sleep in the next morning because, you’ve got school, college, uni or work the next day.
You are free for the day, but it’s in the back of your mind, the thought getting bigger as the day gets later.

Traditionally, Sunday nights growing up were mostly bath night.


Called in early from your street-light squinting game of footy in the street, always seemed to be before your mates, sulking as you drag your feet and in to the bath. Lucky if you didn’t have to dive into the bath after your brother!

After a quick dunk, where mum brillo-padded your skin off (said to be to get rid of the “tide-mark” around your now skinless neck) and vosene’d your swede as if she was trying to get the last coin out of a money box via the slot, the reality would hit you…

Homework!
I haven’t done it yet?
Tough, you’d have the time it takes toast to go cold before you were shipped off to bed (early because it’s a school night) and clean sheets, dried on the line for an extra fresh smell, leaving them like cardboard for the first couple of nights.
Always tucked in at the foot of the bed, which I hated as I prefer feet out of the covers, or at least the option of.

Shoes needed polishing, hadn’t done them either. Still caked in now dried mud from Fridays, leg it home through the fields, from school.

It would take an age to nod off, then you would finally wake, on the third shout, Monday morning, from downstairs mum. Your weekend now gone and for the most part, forgotten.

Nowadays, it’s just as difficult to nod off on a Sunday. Usually loads of things on the mental to-do list spinning around your swede.

The alarm wakes me now and I have to motivate myself to get up.
No breakfast prepared by mum, the clean sheets I have to spend time washing, hanging out on the line, then folding up and putting on the bed myself, instead of playing out with my mates.

I have the morning battle with homework not being done, via sprog 2.
The shortcut over the fields mud is still there, the shoe cleaning is last thing Sunday night. Yes I’m still doing it now, at my old age.
I have remained loyal to vosene, it works, stops my swede itching, but the bath night is now every morning, still as quick a dunk as ever as I’m running late, yet again.
With the best will in the world, I still don’t get my stuff ready the night before, as I keep telling myself I need to.

The ironing that mum used to do, has been replaced with five minutes in the dryer to get the wrinkles out, then I have to fold and put my things away while they are still warm or I’ll look like I’ve just come out of a packet all day the next day.

The Sunday night, street-lamp footy match has been replaced with text messages and emails, until I can’t be bothered.
Maybe I need to change my routine?

My unremarkable weekends, continue to morph into another week and so on and so on.

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