Image via WikipediaSomewhere between a Saturday and a Sunday lies a perfect hour.
That fleeting time when you have forgotten sufficiently about last week to stop wondering what the heck happened, and haven't yet started thinking too much about next week and what fires you will be called upon to put out.
You're even done with your personal chores on a Saturday morning - the bank run, the school fees, the groceries, the plumber. And if you haven't, well its probably too late to think about it since most of these will be closed Sunday anyway.
This hour is life as it is meant to be.
Unbound by the totally arbitrary worries of a crazy world where everything is relative, where today's unfathomables become tomorrow's mundane; where the seemingly impossible problems somehow always manage to become distant, insignificant memories, and where something truly remarkable rarely - if ever - happens.