I Dream of Routine

Every Saturday morning, I have a routine.

Or, realistically, every Saturday morning I try desperately to maintain the dream of a routine. That dream is that wherever I am, I may run to the nearest newspaper outlet and purchase the Saturday Guardian, then sit and devour the supplements over a cup of green tea with soya and a steaming bowl of porridge. Doing thus I may simultaneously embody the Guardian readership stereotype whilst educating myself upon world affairs.

The latter part of that sentence is a shameless lie, as in reality I merely giggle hysterically over the heroic Tim Dowling’s latest columnly-exploits before skipping to this week’s Blind Date, usually finishing off around the ‘What’s Hot/Not’ section. Thus the actual more intellectual features can be read at my leisure throughout the week, preferably again over breakfast while other people mill around the kitchen, fooled into thinking how intelligent I am.

The ‘other people’ in question at the moment consists of the wonderful Reece, an eccentric fellow animator who is spending his copious amount of free ‘just-graduated’ time being wonderfully creative, painting amazing masterpieces despite inebriation and playing the drums with abandon at 3am. He’s putting me up for an indefinite amount of time while I try and cobble some freelance work together and continue job hunting. This has resulted in the strange twilight zone of living out of a suitcase in the city that has been my home for four years. Strange times indeed.

Thus, my Saturday morning dream rarely comes to fruition. It’s strange to realise that I haven’t woken up in the same location in a successive Saturday for months – whether it’s been differing locations in Dundee or visiting family and friends in Edinburgh, Glasgow, or home to the Northlands. In between was America. I feel like playing a country and Western song and whinging about being tumbleweed blowing in the wind.

Last week saw me travelling over to Glasgow sans Sat-Nav (Total. Fail.) to retrieve the boyfriend from his family home back to Dundee. The boyfriend is currently being kept very busy kicking his heels, waiting for his job to start in September. Luckily this all-consuming amount of free-time has not resulted in any kind of itchy impatience or slow-burning madness at all, thank goodness.

As testament, for example, he most certainly has not taken to playing the ‘Muppet Song’ (for those of you ignorant to this piece of musical genius: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8N_tupPBtWQ) on repeat for hours on end – such as on the long drive through infuriating roadworks that may exist between Glasgow and Dundee, or, say, on return from a daytrip to Edinburgh zoo, with a car full of crying Zanti staff and their resulting murder threats...
Nope, he’s the picture of sanity and good health. And I haven’t been reading too much Tim Dowling at all, and any similarity between the above picture and any real-life event is purely coincidental.