During week nights it is perfectly acceptable to return home from work, put your pyjamas on, munch on whatever free stuff you manage to steal from work (I work in an organisation that offers a plethora of events often heavily focused on food) and sit in bed watching T.V, till your eyes get heavy and brain gets fuzzy.
However, as Thursday approaches what I like to call, “The Saturday Night Strees” looms its ugly head. Living in a big city, in your twenties is burdened with an array of expectations, especially focused on Saturday nights. “There is so much to do,” I hear people cry, the assumption being that seeing as I have few responsibilities, I should employ a mass amount of energy in ensuring I have a fulfilling, exciting and varied social life. I, personally, blame the girls of Sex and the City, who made a constant rotation of dates, art galleries, concerts, theatre and soirees look easy.
Now don’t get me wrong I am not akin to the proverbial Grinch hoping to sit in solitary confinement. I want to enjoy my Saturday night, but this pressure is like a fat kid sitting on my chest. Especially given certain constraints….
London is expensive, after rent, food, essential items (which can include very expensive knee high designer boots if I so deign it) and other bits and bots I am not exactly swimming in cash. So whilst I would like to go to the West End, frequent fancy restaurants and whirl around London like the protagonist of a Hollywood movie, I am ultimately subject to a budget. And there quite simply aren’t enough Groupon deals in the world that could allow me to engage in a different, exciting, and stimulating activity every weekend.
The idea of driving into the city centre of London frankly fills me with a fear akin to what J-Law must feel every time she approaches stairs in heels. I know that there is parking on a Saturday night, but nonetheless there are just so many cars, so many one way roads and even after living in London for a year I do not feel emotionally equipped to drive down Oxford Street. And so if I want to stay out late on a Saturday night, I need to get the dreaded night bus back to North West. I have taken this once on Halloween night and it gave me a good insight into how the Israelites must have felt wandering in the desert for forty years. I staggered dazed and confused changing buses twice and trying to find the right bus stop to get me home. It was quite frankly an ordeal, and the sort who utilise the night bus are not the type of people you would want to bring home to mum…
The truth is, often, what I really want to do on a Saturday night is lie in bed, eat some biscuits and watch Netflix. Maybe if I was feeling really daring I would roast some marshmallows on the hob. Or put some baileys in my Hot Chocolate. Well, I guess there’s always Sunday!