The great saturated slump

There is a specific kind of heavy that settles into your bones about a week before the school gates finally lock for the holidays. It’s not just the kind of tired that a good night’s sleep can fix; it’s a soul-deep exhaustion that makes the simple act of putting on a pair of socks feel like a high-altitude expedition.

I’ve been thinking about this since last week. When do you actually know it is time for a break? I used to wonder about this back when I was in school, but I don’t think I paid much attention then. I just pushed through. Now, I’m paying attention. The signs are everywhere, and they are written in the language of missed alarms and unfinished coffee.

Since last Monday, we have been late for school every single day. And it isn’t getting better; it’s getting worse. The margin of our “lateness” is stretching out like a piece of old elastic.

The Couch-Potato Protest

The pinnacle of this pre-holiday collapse happened this morning. At 7:00 AM—the precise moment the car keys should be jingling and the front door should be locking—I looked over at the living room.

My son wasn’t just running behind. He wasn’t even sitting up. He was draped across the couch, sleeping soundlessly in a state of pure, unbothered bliss. There was no uniform in sight, no shoes on feet, just a seven-year-old who had collectively decided, on behalf of the entire family, that the term was over.

I stood there for a second, watching him breathe, and I realized: when you know, you know. We are done. We are ready for those eleven days of pure bliss where the alarm clock is a suggestion, not a command, and there are no negotiations over cereal at dawn.

The London of the South

It hasn’t helped that the sun has apparently gone on a permanent sabbatical. We’ve had weeks of rain with almost zero sunshine to break the grey. Since Friday, it’s been a constant, damp curtain over everything.

Yesterday was particularly weird. We all feel a little flu-ish and lazy, a mood perfectly mirrored by the weather. By the afternoon, the roads had turned into rivers. I am seriously contemplating selling my car and buying a boat instead; it seems like a more practical investment at this point.

Everything is soaking wet. The grass is a sponge, the flower beds are drowning, the paving is slick, and the rain jackets are permanently draped over chairs. And then, there is the laundry.

The laundry pile has returned to its “Mount Everest” status, only this morning, it feels like the peak has grown an extra few thousand feet. It’s a monument to a week where nothing ever truly dries.

Unsubscribing from the Grey

This endless rainy loop feels like those spammy emails that hit your inbox every single day. I’ve started going through my digital life, removing and unsubscribing from everything that clutters my screen, but I find myself wondering: where is the button to unsubscribe from this weather? When do I get to sign up for that warm, sunny South African sky again?

To make matters more “interesting,” the digging in the streets continues. The moment the rain pauses, the excavators roar to life right outside our complex. They are using those machines to their full capacity, and the math is simple but messy: rain plus gravel equals a sea of mud.

Everything is slippery, brown, and wet. I won’t even complain about the noise because the rain is loud enough to muffle the engines. It’s just a symphony of sludge.

The Bone-Deep Chill

I am officially considering a move to a tropical island. Somewhere with white sandy beaches and sunshine that actually stays out for more than five minutes. I wouldn’t even mind the occasional thunderstorm, as long as it isn’t this 24/7 drizzle that seeps into your soul.

It is no secret that I hate the cold. I can’t seem to warm up. I take a warm shower, but the moment I step out, the chill catches me. I put on more jackets until I can barely move my arms, and I huddle under blankets like a little old lady, too afraid to move in case I lose a single degree of body heat. My bones feel cold from the inside out.

The Friday Horizon

So, am I tired? Yes. I’ve had enough of the rain, enough of the cold, and definitely enough of waking up in the dark to a house that feels like a refrigerator.

But am I excited? Also yes.

There are eleven days of “sleeping in” waiting for us on the other side of Friday. We are tripping over the finish line, muddy and exhausted, but we are almost there. We aim for the calm, but life—and the South African autumn—has other plans.

The exhaustion makes the rest taste better. The grey makes the eventual sun look brighter.

But Friday? Friday is for the couch.