I love Friday mornings.
On Friday mornings I can stay snuggled up in bed, instead of shivering at a crowded bus stop, waiting for the number 18 bus that never arrives on time. On Friday mornings I can wear my pajamas and my comfiest sweater, instead of stumbling around my room, searching for a pair of tights that aren’t ripped. On Friday mornings I can play my music as loud as possible, instead of struggling to hear the lyrics over the sound of my fellow commuters nattering about the weather. On Friday mornings I can read the books I adore, instead of attending early morning classes. On Friday mornings I can drink mugs of tea and warm slices of buttery toasts, instead of worrying about whether or not someone heard my stomach rumble in class.
On Friday mornings I feel happy and calm and there’s a feeling of serenity in the air. On Friday mornings I wave goodbye to early morning classes, to sleepy bus journeys and to my worries. On Friday, February 10th, I feel overwhelmingly content as I sit on my sofa, with an empty cup of tea placed on the table in front of me.