Saturdays just seem to suck the desire to be productive right out of me. It's incredible actually, I'll tell myself I'm going to bed early Friday and that I'll get up at the regular time and get some work done in the morning. Then that morning comes around and there's nothing short of our cleaning lady kicking down my door and ripping off my sheets that would make me want to get out of the warmth of my bed. I usually feel guilty about this for a few hours in the morning but by mid-afternoon I tell myself to savour the fact that I'm the only one not working up here. Now I'm going into McMurray to have lunch with an old friend who's in town visiting her boyfriend.