I woke up this morning in a panic thinking that it was Monday and I’d missed my 10h00 meeting. As I thought of all sorts of excuses, reasons and ways to beg for forgiveness Che walks in to the bedroom with coffee and toast.

“Is it Monday or Sunday?” I ask.

“Um…it’s Sunday,” he responds.

“It feels like a Monday, it’s noisy like a Monday,” relief palpable in my voice, as I take a sip of brew.

“Do I buy groceries online or do I drag myself to the shops? The soonest delivery is Tuesday and I’ve run out of toilet paper…” I frown as the harsh truth dawns on me that I have to go out and mix with people on this gorgeous Sunday-by-the-pool-weather.

The weaver must be the only species that demolishes it’s abode with such focus and dedication once it has fulfilled its purpose. No nest ruins on the pine tree.

How cool is this?