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. Saturday's chords close doors that open for post-post-coitus of washing up gone piled. There simply was 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.