Saturday Morning

Waking up, me chirpy and annoying and you groggy pulling me in to you so close I could barely breathe,

I’d make one of my silly faces or something to make you laugh and ease you in to the day,

Pulling  my pyjamas on, I’d get up and put on a pot of coffee,

Then I’d make either pancakes or bacon eggs, it was the days before Avo on sourdough, you’d come and cheekily slap my bum and ‘help’ me finish breakfast

The best days were when there would be a 12 pm kick off and we’d stay pyjama clad to watch North London’s finest game on your 50 inch screen.

My legs over yours, skin on skin, cold bottle of lager in our hands. Still dressed in my pyjama t- shirt and shorts, placing bets over the score, the loser would buy tonight’s dinner and the winner would decide where.

We’d play fight over the remote at half time and argue over what to catch 15 minutes of, normally we’d settle on Hollyoaks repeats.

I’d pray our team would win so you’d be in a good mood, I’d check the score even when you’d gone to a game to decipher whether or not you’d need cheering up,

We’d go for dinner in the evening, you were a chef but adored Nando’s, occassionally if you were up early on Sunday, it would be a takeaway in front of the TV and now I kinda miss those days, where I could wake up with someone on weekends.

 

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