Groundhog Sunday

It's supposed to be man's day of rest; a day invented by men to provide a renowned excuse do nothing at all. Most Sunday mornings start with this plan only to have those hopes shattered by our other halves who decree that as we have nothing to do there are now a thousand things that we are doing. Gardening (hate it), cleaning (loathe it), socialising (shudder-enducing) or if none of the above are acceptable to me then she'll play the trump card of "sorting out" either the cupboard under the stairs, the garage or my bedside table (which I cannot allow as she will inevitably discover the stash of KitKat wrappers and Magnum ice cream sticks I tucked under the mattress a while back).

She'll start to try and list the positives of all of the above options but none of these come close to nothingness. But she'll never understand. She'll treat the option of doing nothing like I have suggested we pop around for a foursome with her grandparents; it's unthinkable, abhorrant and I'm delusional to even think it's an option . If I maintain my resistance then she'll overcome any remaining defensive lines with the fatal blow of "fine!".

Having lost round one I'll get dressed enough to be "dressed" but not sufficiently attired to suggest I am open to the idea of leaving the house or being presented to people. It is at this point where real congnitive supremacy is required; by entering the danger zone of downstairs then I need to appear to be busy without doing anything. If I am seen to idle, even for seconds, then old hawk eyes will instantly slip in "can you just..." or "would you mind..." naively thinking the sugar-coated requests will loosen me up into choredome. Holding a pen can be enough to deter her early radar systems but it will only buy me 20 minutes at best, watering the lawn only requires one arm so I can check the overnight news on my iPhone whilst looking "busy"and if the weather has been warm then I can eke this out for a good 30 minute before her suspicions heighten. It's now going to be around 10am, so I need another two hours of looking busy before it becomes too late to be able to get showered, changed and the decision made on where to go. Feeding the fish in the pond will take ten minutes, walking around the garden with a determination in my stride will buy me another 20 minutes under the trackers so this is already 25% of the mission acheived. Offering to make a cup of tea (and drinking it together) will definitely chalk off 30 minutes and by then I'll need my Sunday poo, this is a satisfying 30 minute win. A quick wipe around the kitchen counters with a teatowel and moving shit around in the living room will get me over the finishing line. And then comes the real genius moment "what shall we do then?" I'll ask. She'll look at her watch, calculate the time it will take for her to get ready, makeup and hair sorted and then drive to somewhere and then calculate, solely through her own considerations, that we have not really got the time to "carpe diem". With this conclusion, I have acheived doing nothing for the whole day and have done so without blame.