Every day should be at least partly Friday
Every Day Should Be at Least Partly Friday
Whether it’s a lunchtime stroll, a crumpet on a bench, or the hum of the tube, let every dawn whisper a Friday’s promise.
Monday – the early‑morning coffee
I sip my flat‑white the same as every Friday,
the foam a frothy reminder of late‑week freedom,
and the barista calls my name, “Lovely, just as yesterday.”
I leave the shop with a playlist that’s less work‑desk than pub‑karaoke.
Tuesday – the brief, breezy walk
Out of the office, I wander past the city’s square,
snapping a photo of the newsstand’s comic book deals,
the world in colour, as if the weekend had already arrived.
I feel the touch of the evening’s “cheers” in every gull‑winged busker.
Wednesday – the cricket field
At the local park I press my fist against the old wooden bat,
watch the ball arc like a promising left‑footed finish.
The roar of the crowd is not just cheers, but a collective sigh –
the promise that tomorrow will be less of a quarrel, more of a laugh.
Thursday – the queue at the chemist
Buying my vitamins becomes a clandestine group,
two strangers share a joke about the ‘tomorrow’s heatwave’.
They toth the bottles together, as if the pharmacy had turned into a tavern.
The doctor tells us all that the best medicine is on the last shelf – a banquet of rest.
Friday – the actual feel
The day striles out into a late coffee, the tea’s hot,
and I sit with notes that say: “Dream, plan, enjoy one more day.”
There is a flicker, a light installed by the clock’s hands,
a window that widens, the shade sliding away – a promise in the air.
Saturday – the lingering echo
We keep the Friday cadence, that late‑night laughter in the lane.
Drop by the pub, the air tidal with “cheerio!” and “affinity.”
We asset the golden hour, when the sun is a little softer,
and we dream that the day will not be much different.
Sunday – the gentle lull
The final page of the week, though intoxicating,
reminds me that every day can negotiate Friday’s identity.
A simple bake, a shared story—vivid street‑lights,
and still, as we head to bed, the sense that tomorrow will be the same, a little lighter.
At least partly Friday
Every hour can be made a bit more thrilling:
the coffee smell, the cricket’s roar, the chemist’s banter,
the lingering pub laughter, the sunset that feels as if it ought to last forever.
Because if we can braid each day, even minutely, with the grin of Friday,
the week itself becomes less of a march and more of a promenade beneath the quiet London sky.
