Lindsay Woods: I have officially tendered my resignation in the pursuit of wanton weekend activities

In recent years the lure of the sofa is greater than the promise of an outdoor excursion, writes Lindsay Woods

In the movie, ‘Mr. Skeffington’, the character Fanny, portrayed by Bette Davis, has a number of promised luncheon engagements with a lady called, Janie Clarkson. However, none of these are ever fulfilled,

“Manby, would you call Janie Clarkson and tell her I can’t possibly see her for lunch today?”

We are only privy to the character of Janie through the cancellation of said plans. The audience never physically sees her; she is merely the invisible recipient of cancelled arrangements.

I am Bette Davis. Everyone I know is Janie.

I always have great intentions. Honestly, I do. It’s just that in recent years, the lure of the sofa is greater than the promise of an outdoors excursion. Mainly, because I get so little quality time with said sofa.

Like many of my generation, I am time poor. Whilst a percentage of this is my own doing, the bulk can be attributed to the demands of daily life. On any given day, I can be rained on, shouted at, vomited/sneezed/coughed upon, demanded of and off-loaded on. Therefore, by the time I make it to Friday; I’m pretty much broken. The only cure being the stained, sagging sanctuary, a takeaway and 15 minutes of chat with himself before hitting the Netflix button.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m partial to a bi-annual ‘Going out-out’ fiesta but outside of that, I’m more of a ‘fly by the seat of my pants’ type. Whereas I balk at a calendar full of ‘Janie Clarkson’ luncheons, I have embraced more impromptu engagements than previous. If we bump into one another, let’s grab a coffee then for a quick catch-up rather than playing cat and mouse for the next few months. A last-minute message on a Friday evening asking, ‘Do you want to pop over for a glass?’, where all parties can stay in slippers and avoid obnoxious taxi queues is just delicious.

Friday nights are to the mid-thirties set what the entire weekend is to the mid-twenties brigade. Devoid of the responsibility of the school-run and secure in the knowledge that my husband will handle any sports related activities the following morning, I can duly imbibe my beverage of choice cocooned in the confines of my own squalor. Now, honestly, why would I want to brave some inclement weather more than twice a year for the sake of a boomerang on Instagram? Because you can try and convince yourself that it’s a good night but really, you’re not chowing down on some Singapore noodles, knocking back a nice Bordeaux, in your best flannel with back to back episodes of ‘The Assassination of Gianni Versace: American Crime Story’, are you?

The truth is, I like being at home. Yes, the daily drudgery can numb my soul but once that Friday drops my mindset shifts. It’s not so much ‘living for the weekend’, it’s more ‘loving the weekend’. I have also recently decided to stop concocting various excuses as to why I don’t want to set a fluffy sock-clad foot outside of the door. Its not you Janie, it’s me! I just really like staying in.

It doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate you as a person. It just means I’m essentially a hermit. At the weekends. We can still have a lit WhatsApp group; just from the comfort of my sitting room. If you want me to go bungee jumping, queue for a table at brunch (It will only accelerate my ‘h-anger’) or go listen to an obscure soloist in a converted, yet still damp, church; then I am not your gal.

Once Monday hits, I’m back in the game; but, weekends are sacred. I need them. In particular, Friday nights.

Because when I jolt myself awake, as the closing credits of the show I have just missed roll onto the screen and reach for the dregs of my tipple to soothe my scratchy throat due to my excessive snoring, I am secure in the knowledge that there are an entire two days’ worth of indulgent sloth-like activities remaining at my disposal. You know, in amongst the 17 birthday parties we will inevitably end up ferrying our offspring between, the matches/training/endless supplying of food…

I have officially tendered my resignation in the pursuit of wanton weekend activities. It is my prerogative. Janie Clarkson also needs to accept that my reason of, ‘I just don’t want to’ is just that… I just don’t want to.

However, if by chance she arrives between the hours of four and five o’clock on Friday evening; I will of course budge up on the sofa, pour her a glass and order an additional portion of noodles. Just don’t expect to stay past breakfast Janie; you’re eating into my quality time and I may be forced to cancel our luncheon engagement on Monday as a result.