I’ve been in work early the past couple of days, I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed being up early on a weekday. Trains are quiet, the city is quiet, and you get a wave of serenity wash over you which manages to last most of the day (until the rush hour trip home).
I’ve never translated it to weekends though, taking after my Mum and enjoying my bed too much, but on the odd occasion I’ve managed to arise before 7 a.m. on a Saturday it’s an entirely different feeling.
During the week, corner shops are open, cafe’s are frying up the morning’s breakfasts and their is a small amount of solidarity to be found amonst early risers. At the weekend you are much more alone and acutely aware of it. You get the sensation that the world has become your Marie Celeste.
I really should try getting up early more often, of course that would mean going to bed at a reasonable hour, and therein lies the problem. As much as I enjoy the occasional early morning, I much prefer a late night. I’m sure that speaks volumes about my character and no doubt there is some branch of psychology that has researched this trait to within an inch of its being, but I don’t care. I still feel ‘naughty’ when I stay up late, obviously a hangover from childhood, there is still a slight buzz of excitement, creeping into the bedroom at 2 a.m. on a ‘school night’. Whereas getting up early seems all too grown up and mature.