It was only last week that I discovered the French expression, “faire la grasse matinée.” It means “a fat morning” and I was intrigued by it, because it sounds wonderful, and better because the upcoming Saturday didn’t have any plans. It means “to sleep in,” but disguised in a foreign accent and wrapped in French romance, it’s more than just pajama’s and morning breath – it is an excellent covenant to have with yourself, and protocol for weekends following busy weeks. If you must have a lazy Saturday morning (everyone must at some point), then you must do it well.

My weekday alarm goes off, because my phone is obviously struggling to cope with the pressure I’ve been putting on it, and I should be mad, but I’m not. We’ve been through too many good/bad times, and I know it will take a much deeper wound than this for me to replace it. I drift back to sleep, surprised and pleased at my willing forgiveness.

Sunshine keeps slipping through the curtain, and I decide I should let it in completely, because I know it’s been longing to for the last two hours. I’m hazy from sleep, but I detect a clear sky, and then get distracted by my cat, who wants to come inside but will not use the cat door (spoiler: I let her in).

A cliché, a trend, a mania. Whatever you call it, the weekend usually starts with coffee. Two more minutes and then I will be whole again, less aggravated by my cat, and able to say “good morning” a little less softly, a little more firmly. My most unpopular and probably unacceptable opinion is that instant coffee isn’t that bad, so I pick a sachet and empty it into an egg blue artist’s mug. Steam from the jug clouds the window.

I read chapter sixteen of “All The Light We Cannot See” by Anothony Doerr. I have always been fascinated by World War II, and have a habit of getting lost in both fiction and non-fiction narrations of what happened, in all those wonderful details about some of the bravest people I believe to have ever lived. Pain is awful, but it exposes a deeper element of existence that I insistently weep and melancholically long to understand. I don’t really mind when the man next door starts mowing the lawns, because I have drifted so far into my paperback prose that I have probably forgotten such technology even exists.

I wander up the stairs, and I contemplate cleaning, but don’t. I bought bagels yesterday, and since I consider them the greatest of all brunch-time meals, I will have two thanks. I stand there in floral pajama’s and watch the bacon cook, simultaneously flinging spinach and brie cheese and any appealing leftover veges around the kitchen. After the intial rush-around, I am very specific in my meal prep, and after flipping the bacon, I finish organizing the bagel fillings on the border of my plate. The toaster pops (it gives my cat a fright), and in a single movement, I grab the knife and swiftly crunch butter on to each half of the bagel. Plated and ready, dripping in butter and bacon fat.

I am happy and full, but my cat looks repressed – apparently fresh biscuits are significantly inadequate, and assuming she will eat them a very generous and offensive expectation. But I am busy refreshing my twitter feed, because although it is often just meaningless chatter, sometimes it is nice to talk about nothing, especially on Saturday mornings. 

I bought a Lush shower gel that I am desperate to try out (the Comforter if you were wondering), so I pad down the stairs, and turn the shower handle to red-skin-hot. I am clean, I smell great, and I have now changed into a passably stylish outfit. Despite my religiousness around having a ‘lazy’ morning, I quickly tidy all the hair products lining the basin, because having that many lids open is giving me anxiety. I also water all nearby plants, in a sudden panic, due to my inability to recall the last time I did so. Deep breaths – they are not dead (yet).

I am gracefully spread in the middle of my queen-size bed, flicking through my life goals planner, while sipping a second Capuccino (this one has coconut milk because we have run out of cow’s milk and a lazy Saturday does not include a drive to the grocery store). I am happily emblazoning it with stickers and tasteful gel pen markings, and I joyfully make my next dentist appointment a colourful fiesta. Although my skills in calligraphy would never make me IG famous, they do make my planner look good (my cat hears but doesn’t care). Half of this ‘planning’ time was spent on Pinterest, of course.

The clock, the weather - the morning is over. (Wistfully returns to responsible life.) What do you do on a lazy Saturday morning?

Mads xx


  1. Haha this was nice to read, a lazy Saturday morning sounds so perfect. I was green with envy whilst reading this haha. xx
    Coco Bella Blog

  2. I'm from Australia and 18 too. Cute blog!

  3. I wish I could have a lazy Saturday. Unfortunately, for me, my weekends are nothing but hectic!😌 Nice routine, I'd say.😄😄

    #sweetreats xx


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