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 Saturdays are special

Saturday nights have always felt different, often more exciting, sometimes pivotal. When I was a child Saturday nights felt lively because the TV was light and humorous with no emotional soap operas or serious documentaries. As I grew to adolescence I was able to go out in the early evening and hang about the park with friends, feeling nothing but liberation, free from family and television. As soon as I was old enough I was at discos, dancing to T-Rex, Rod Stewart and David Bowie, mostly at local churches. Real freedom and excitement came when I could go into town, the big disco dancehalls with flickering lights and a beat that put you in tune with the music. When I was a poor student and couldn't afford the entrance fee to the disco I took a job there on Saturday nights. I could be part of the action, feel the music, dance at my break. As a newly married mother with young babies, Saturdays remained different from other days. They might simply be marked by a pizza delivery, but as the kids grew we would go to friends' homes, they would come to ours. We always did something on a Saturday. 

The idea of Saturday being special has followed me to strange places. In rural Africa, I had friends who worked at other mission stations. We worked hard all week and, when it came to the weekend, we would dance and sing, usually to Bob Marley. In the Middle East, it wasn't difficult to find a lively event, although Friday often replaced Saturday as the social highlight. Probably the strangest Saturday was in Siberia. We were staying in a small hotel near Lake Baikal. We'd had an ok evening meal and headed upstairs to our room. As I was brushing my teeth, my husband lay on the bed, looked at his watch and said, "It's nine o'clock on a Saturday night." Neither of us said anything more but we dressed hurriedly - hiking boots, warm jackets - and went out into the freezing Arctic April night and followed a dark path as guard dogs barked menacingly from behind fences. In town were a few brightly lit bars with women in their finest bling, while men lay drunk on the pavement outside. The women gave me  scathing looks, the very presence of my ski jacket and hiking boots was disrespectful to their sparkle. For me, however, it was a Saturday night and I was out on the town 

I suspect that Saturday will remain, for me, special no matter how old I become. When my kids put me  into the nursing home I hope it is one where Saturdays are marked by dancing, music and singing 



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