There are times I get a bit confused as to what day it is. Maybe you know the feeling, from holidays for example, when all days look the same and you don’t have the same markers as during working weeks. When there is nothing you must do, no one you have to meet, it can be pretty hard telling days apart; one morning you may wake up wondering, is it Monday or Tuesday?
Well, I get that sort of feeling every now and then, and quite intensely at times. This week for example: on Tuesday night, I thought it was Wednesday; on Wednesday morning, I remember switching off my alarm clock thinking it’s way too early to get up for a Saturday; and on Thursday, it felt like week-end. Today as well (it’s Friday), but with Easter it is a long week-end anyway.
I cycled all the way to the blood donation centre yesterday, through avenues beset by trees and bushes, and along a park. The smell of vegetation coming alive, daffodils, grass, a touch of barbecue smoke, the evanescent dryness of asphalt; sounds of birds chirping, people chatting and lazying on the grass; the delicate heat of a clear sun.