Unpopular opinion: Weekends are a scam as big as a calendar with a trapdoor
Dr. Pat Hypothesis exposes the two-day leisure racket, fuelled by damp laundry, unfinished errands and one extremely suspicious alarm clock.
I have reached the only reasonable conclusion about weekends: they are a scam as big as a calendar with a trapdoor. Every Friday evening, Upper Tumblewick receives 48 hours of alleged freedom, then gets billed in laundry, errands and the mental labour of working out what day it is. I checked this myself, mainly by looking at a clock until it began to seem personally disappointed.
Saturday poses as rest. It turns up in a jaunty little hat, with a sack marked “things you postponed on Thursday” over one shoulder. I tried doing nothing one morning. Within minutes there were three unwashed mugs, a loose button and a note saying the cupboard had become “structurally optimistic.”
That was only Saturday.
“A weekend is not wasted if you spend it wondering whether you have wasted it.”
Sunday is Saturday after somebody has kept it in a drawer. It starts with talk of a gentle reset, then ends with me bargaining with an alarm clock that has not even rung. The thing sits by the bed, silent and smug, like a tiny landlord due at dawn. I have thought about throwing it away. Then I would need to know the time by other means.
The defenders of weekends say they give people time to enjoy themselves. Name one enjoyable activity that does not, sooner or later, require finding a charger, wiping a surface or saying, “We should really do that more often.” Even leisure has paperwork. Last time I relaxed, I needed a blanket, a snack, two cushions and a formal complaint from my lower back, which is an object and therefore cannot hold a medical opinion.
By then, naturally, the authorities had appeared.
The Weekend Standards Office, an unnecessary bureau operating from a converted wardrobe, maintains that everything is in order. Its director, Clovis Puddlewick, told me, “A weekend is not wasted if you spend it wondering whether you have wasted it.” That sentence belongs on a motivational mug, where it can be held responsible for the collapse of civilisation. I asked whether the office had considered a three-day weekend. He opened a drawer. Nobody saw him again.
My proposal is straightforward: replace weekends with two surprise Tuesdays and an afternoon called “Certainly Not Monday.” Nobody would make plans. Laundry would lose confidence. Alarm clocks would need permits before making a noise. The town hall could hand every household a small certificate confirming that nothing was expected of them, apart from mild confusion.
Until that reform arrives, I will resist in the only practical fashion. I will stay indoors, distrust clocks and regard every invitation to “make the most of it” as a suspicious financial document. I do not need more free time. I need time that stops claiming to be free while concealing a receipt in its lining.
At the time of writing, Saturday had denied all allegations in a handwritten note pushed under my door. The note was blank. This is precisely the evasive conduct I have come to expect from the weekend. I shall spend Sunday preparing my case, unless Sunday gets there first.