Treasure Hunt
I’m interested in Friday night and Saturday morning. It used to be that the former bludgeoned the latter when my weekends were built on going out and drinking too much. The energy switch from the working week to downtime, or family time, or whatever it might be for each person, provides many clues about character and personality. It’s a subtle thing, and not easily observed in others, but it’s there if you want it.
Some escape into the weekend. Others triumphantly stomp into it, the general of a life they love, confident in their direction and gushing with silken imaginings of what next week will bring, and how this weekend can celebrate or nourish it.
These days my Friday nights are lower-key. A single whisky and a cup of tea is not unheard of. Not in succession either. At the same time. Have that! What of it? What are you going to do about it? Hm? And Saturday mornings… the simple pleasures. I’ll doze on the sofa in front of a Batman cartoon with the kids and then get on the coffee, knowing there’s a chance of finishing one uninterrupted since they are now five years old. But in amongst all this, I’ll carry around whichever book has me all excited. I’ll reflect on the week’s highs and lows, think about how the next one might shape up, and find ways to get excited about it despite the turbulence seemingly everywhere. I’m a purer, less professional self, and the feelings I get with a moment away from the desk are often valuable insights into the flow of my creativity.
Years ago it was chaotic. Who, at the age of 19 or 21, has a conscious awareness of these feelings? Not many. And yet I loved to watch the weekend versions of people. How did their dress sense change? What did they choose to do with or without money? How did music fit into their plans and influence behaviour? Were they bothered by the sporting calendar? Were they assertively social – organisers and cheerleaders – or passive? Happy to plug into whatever with whoever? And on the murkier side of all this, how did they feel come Sunday night? Was their dread temporary because they were on a better path into a longer-term future aligned with this weekend self, or running from something they felt they could not escape?
The other day I walked past a can of Oranjeboom sat on a wall. Oranjeboom is a Dutch beer with its roots in Rotterdam. I began cackling and stopped. My wife asked what was funny as I took a photo of it before taking it to the recycling bin in the park. I told her about a friend of mine who while at university in Leeds, discovered that you could get four cans of the stuff dirt cheap in Home Bargains. I put pressure on him to come out, and after futile protests of being broke until his student loan landed, eventually agreed to come out.
He turned up and declined all drink offers. Fair enough, I thought. Nice to see him anyway and the sobriety might help him come bath night. After two pubs, I noticed that as we walked between venues, he’d run off and return several minutes after we’d ordered. So I ran behind on the third vanishing. I watched as this dark hunched shape didn’t piss into a bush, but stooped and began digging into the earth. After 30 seconds or so, he pulled up a vessel, at which point he noticed me watching and burst out laughing.
“Fuck’s sake mate! I panicked then, thought you were a mugger!” As he emerged and the streetlight hit him, I saw his muddy fingers wrapped around a still-cold can of Oranjeboom and fell about laughing.
“I told you I was skint!”
“How many of these have you hidden?”
“Eight. One between each pub.”
By this point, we’d been going out for over two years, so he knew the likeliest trail and our hometown wasn’t the biggest place. He was fit, so if he needed to run further to get at his loot, it wasn’t a problem.
I’ve never forgotten the surge of misplaced admiration I had for his innovation. This budget side-quest he’d put in place as we all carried out a predictable central plot. And the ludicrous contrast between his stylish outfit, a vintage denim jacket, and Converse shoes, and his building site fingernails, dark with the dirt of one who isn’t afraid to sweat and defy convention for his pay.
A silly story? Maybe. But we can only learn so much through practicing the skills that define our career choices. These downtime deeds are just as valuable as we seek to understand ourselves; our needs, quirks, thrills, and unique way of navigating our lives.