The Weekend, The Weekend
My weekends have boozy eyelids that open and close to the tune of drizzle. Now they're heavy to crackling spa waters and chilly feet. I didn't know I was after a gasper, but I know whose chords close doors. Post-post-coitus is thoughts about washing up gone piled because there's no forks left. My grandchildren won't know about the ripped naan two days from Monday but I'll tell them about the Sunday Trading Act 1994. They might suggest I liver a better life or never start to exist.