What would you do this weekend if money and time were no object? We asked our contributors the same question. Unsurprisingly, food and sleep featured heavily.
I’m sitting up in a bed of crisp white sheets with a pile of crisp white pillows. The sun is shining. There is endless tea and club sandwiches from room service. Nobody asking me to do stuff for them or make me feel guilty for having a day to myself. Or because I’m in bed in the afternoon thinking I’m after a shag.
Saturday: My whole family stays in bed until 11am but I get up and play my clarinet on my own for two hours. Then a load of friends come over with musical instruments and we all have a massive jam in the garden around a campfire. Then we eat cheese and onion pie and drink Prosecco. Then everyone goes home the very minute I get bored of them and I watch Gilmore Girls on my own.
Sunday: I spend the morning in the bath reading and drinking coffee and in the afternoon my daughters and I go and watch a musical. (Hey, this is totally all achievable. I have reached enlightenment).
May I answer like this? 🌯🌯🌯🍹🍦🥃🥃🛌😴😴😴😴😴😴😴😴😴😴😴😴😴😴😴😴😴🤗🤸🏻♀️🗞🥐🥓♀🏝🌊🐡🐠🐚💓🎤🤡🍺🍺🛌😴😴😍🤸🏻♀️🌮🍆🍓🌶🤤📽🎞🛋💋👶🏻🛌😴😴😴
If it’s too long just the three burritos at the start would work.
Breakfast in bed, delivered by cheerful, cooperating children (ideally mine, but open to offers). A fun outing somewhere (museum, National Trust property, bit of geocaching), preferably in fancy dress for no apparent reason – pirates is my favourite.
Late afternoon meal out with friends, families, kids and amazing food, but home early enough to spend the evening watching a great film under a pile of pets and kids. Chocolate orange in the bath.
There’d be a swim in some warm, sparkly sea with my husband, after which we’d be befriended by some humming birds. They’d have a great sensayumah and would really like my jokes.
Then, somehow back in Scotland, a group of friendly Border collies would invite us to watch them training for One Man and His Dog, which would be called One Person and Their Dog. I’d be snacking on good Brie, cheap crisps and properly expensive wine. Rik Mayall would be there, directing the dogs with a twitch of the eyebrow.
When we got home our cat would suddenly discover the joy of sitting on laps while we watched quality Mafia films, and she would also be immortal. I won’t dictate the order in which these events take place because I know I need to be realistic.
A sleep in (and a proper sleep in, not a parents’ sleep in of 7.30am). Brunch at my favourite cafe (which has unfortunately changed into a fancy-schmancy Asian-fusion place, so there will be some time travel involved).
Then a stroll round a market, during which neither my husband or child sigh heavily even once. After that we go home for a private performance of Hamilton sung by kittens (I ramped things up at the end there, but how good would it be?).
Waking up at around 10am on a Saturday morning in a beautiful big bed – my own is so big that I can starfish and still not touch any of the edges, so standards are pretty high here. No laptops, no work to do, no stress. A clear and calm head.
The faint smell of coffee being prepared by my wonderful husband-to-be Karl, before we get up, get ready and race out to meet friends for brunch – Alfredo and Chris, Michael and Dino –sometimes even both of these lovely couples. Boozy brunch.
“A group of friendly Border collies would invite us to watch them training for One Man and His Dog, which would be called One Person and Their Dog. Rik Mayall would be there, directing the dogs with a twitch of the eyebrow.”
Then a day of adventure ahead – planned, sometimes unplanned, or even a surprise where I don’t know where we are going, just what I need to wear for it. Either head into the city or out to the country for urban or rural exploration. If the latter, a pawsome dog to walk and snuggle would be lovely. Cocktails and dinner on a cosy sofa in a nice pub, before heading home for snuggles.
Waking up late on Sunday morning, Karl making an amazing Ulster fry which we scoff down while curled up on the sofa together in our PJs while hoking through the weekend paper and its many supplements.
Then curling up in a comfy chair with a good book and reading for pleasure and not for work, before heading to my parents’ for one of my mum’s amazing home-cooked meals and putting the world to rights with the people I love before another week begins. Man, I miss reading for pleasure… Also, I really sound like a cat…
Vicky Lindsay Warburton
Fly to Christchurch, New Zealand (first class of course) with my Mr and small versions. (No one is repeatedly travel sick. NO ONE). Due to time spaces/interfaces my 24 hours starts when we land. I hike up Mt Cook with my best mate who cleared off to live there. We have a two-year overdue catch-up (namely drivelling nonsense of zero relevance).
Summit, astounded by the breathtaking view, then come back and have a BBQ with both our families and drink and eat like horses. Spend time cry-laughing and all wear fake Duane Dibbley teeth. BLISS. (Have I gone over 24 hours?…balls to it.)
Based on the weekend before last, I’d meet up with Standard Issue pals and go on a Women’s March united with people around the world… And a cup of tea in bed would be nice.
I’d pack a backpack and spend the weekend exploring somewhere warm, mountainous and utterly devoid of humans. Just me and a banging playlist, and enough scenery to break Instagram afterwards.
I’ve moved around a lot for work, so my perfect weekends tend to involve driving back to my motherland of Herefordshire, with my husband in tow. A place where my mum still caters to my teenage self (egg and chips/Black Forest gateau/Cornettos) and my dad shows me photos of great-uncles and aunts with robust names like Bert, Jack, Bob, Floss, Dorcas and Cass.
Weekends in the Shire are punctuated by visits from my brothers, sisters-in-law and a gaggle of nieces against a backdrop of a boiling kettle and someone rifling in the cupboard for Penguins.
I don’t have to entertain and instead I’m left to read on the sofa under a blanket, pretending to know who my mum is talking about (“Y’know – black hair… was in the choir… we saw her at bingo that time…”) while Dad fills a hot water bottle and puts it in my bed. And rel-a-a-a- x.
Go to the moon. But just for three-quarters of an hour. I’ve figured out that’s the optimum amount of time to spend anywhere that isn’t home. So 45 minutes on the moon then find a nice pub for a gravy dinner.
Some of Standard Issue's brilliant women's carefully crafted words for your reading pleasure.