For some people, Saturday morning starts at 1.00am, and they still think it's Friday until about 3.00pm, when they disappear into bed, amidst shards of broken glass, used condoms, and an alcoholic stupour. For others, Saturday morning begins on Saturday afternoon, which is the time they wake up. It's all up to the individual, really.
For me, Saturday mornings begins at 7.00am. Because I am afflicted with nine-to-five syndrome, I wake up too early in a haze of anxiety. I spend the next hour or so deliberately making myself fall asleep, and the whole thing is so exhausting that I actually succeed. Later I will spring out of bed with my customary alacrity (meaning I will disappear further into my blankets and curse the day with many creative imprecations and unholy words) and make breakfast for myself. (Usually a cereal sloshed with milk, closely followed by two cups of coffee).
After loitering over the cereal, lingering over the coffee, and lollygagging over the television, I will stroll down the street to get myself a copy of the Saturday papers. My parents have always bought the Saturday papers, but for some reason, I am the only one amongst four brothers stupid enough to continue the tradition. Perhaps I will pick up a donut or some croissants on the way.
I will spend the next hour or two studiously ignoring the important political stories, reading the obituaries to see if any of my enemies have died (I don't have any enemies, but I'm sure the obituaries will provide me with a few), and most importantly, going over the book reviews (in preference to actually reading the books - it's much more convenient that way).
I do my shopping Saturday evening, (preferring the possibility of being mugged by Upfield bogans to the certainty of being trampled on by fat Lebanese mothers looking for beans: for some reason, they all shop at the Coburg Supermarket around midday. I personally lay the blame on the staff for being open at such eccentric hours.)
Having got all the shopping out of the way on Saturday, Sunday morning will be spent tricking my flatmate into believing that it's his turn to do the cleaning up, which I usually do by the simple expedient of lying. This achieved, I will continue to lie about the house and read a book, perhaps with some music on. In the afternoon, I will go and see a movie. As I don't have a cinema in my neighbourhood, this usually means taking an adventure on the trams. (Although 'adventure' perhaps isn't the right word, unless you classify 'adventure' as "Bold Acts of Derring-Don't on the Public Transport as Tim Braves the Bogans and the Alcoholics.")
In the evening, after having arrived at home, I'll usually finish off with a beer or two, a steak sandwich, and a book.
And the wind-down to the week? I do the wind-down with a rusty old lever I keep stowed in my cupboard for just such an eventuality. Shortly after, I will disappear into bed and dream sweet dreams about murdering my boss or seducing my co-workers, before waking up in a haze of anxiety ... such is life.