My favourite time of the week is Friday night, around 6:30pm.
It’s not the moment I walk in the door from work. It’s not the moment I get to the pub and sip my first drink. It’s the moment I take off my work clothes, and throw them on the floor, trampling them beneath my feet.
Through the week I take care not to wrinkle my work clothes. It means less vigorous ironing after the wash. On Friday nights, I can take them off and not look at them again until Sunday. Late. When I realise I still haven’t washed my work clothes.
But in that initial moment, where my stockinged feet slide on the silk of my shirt and I can feel the bubbles of the carpet beneath it, I take a perverse sort of pleasure out of that moment where work ends and that glorious solitude of the weekend begins.
In my job, I get an RDO every second Friday, tomorrow being one of them.
Tonight, I scrunched my work clothes into balls and aimed for the laundry basket.