Let me set the scene: A four-day weekend. Ninety-six hours of pure, unadulterated freedom. By taking Friday off to bridge into the Easter Monday public holiday, my wife and I had engineered the perfect mini-vacation right here at home. The plan was simple: relax, enjoy life, eat well, and perhaps be just a tiny bit productive.
Spoiler alert: I am currently writing this with a lower back that feels like it belongs to an eighty-year-old, and a lawn that looks like the aftermath of a medieval siege. But let's not get ahead of ourselves.
Friday: The Illusion of Athletic Competence
The long weekend kicked off on Friday morning with 9 holes of golf. I hadn’t touched a club in a solid eight months, and playing this early in the year is a rarity for me. Naturally, I stepped onto the first tee with zero expectations.
And wouldn't you know it? The first three holes were glorious. A bogey, a double bogey, and a par! I was practically Tiger Woods. I was a natural. I was... about to completely fall apart. You see, the fatal flaw in amateur golf is that when things go well, you start thinking about your swing. The moment my brain got involved, my game went straight off a cliff. But despite my scorecard looking like a random number generator by hole 9, it was absolutely brilliant. It’s always so much fun to get out on the course with my wife. Usually, life gets in the way, so this was a massive win.
Back home, reality hit. The garden shed had become a chaotic museum of things we "might need someday." It was a complete disaster zone—everything crisscrossed on the floor, defying all laws of physics and organization. So, I dragged everything out, swept the place down, and built two new storage racks.
Behold! You can actually stack things now. We crammed everything back in because the evening was approaching, and we had far more important business: a reservation at our favorite local wine bar.
They have a tiny menu, but the Italian food is phenomenal. Fast forward a few hours, several incredible dishes, and an undisclosed amount of fermented Italian grapes, and I had a sudden epiphany: I and my car were legally incompatible for the journey home. I had originally planned to go play pool afterward, but wisdom (and the wine) prevailed. I called in a favor from a buddy who heroically came to retrieve me around 1:00 AM.
Saturday: Hangovers and Hardware Stores
Saturday morning started with what we shall politely call a "tactical delay." Once the fog cleared, I was faced with my first mission: replacing a dead lightbulb in the entrance hall.
Now, I don't remember ever changing this bulb since we moved in. Do lightbulbs usually last a decade? Apparently, this one did. Of course, it was a highly specific bulb that we didn't have in the house, which meant braving the hardware store on a Saturday holiday weekend.
While navigating the aisles, I had a stroke of DIY genius and bought four heavy-duty wall hooks for the shed. The mission: hang up the massive, annoying hoses for the pool's pump and heat pump that I disconnect for the winter.
Screwing these hooks into the wooden frame was a test of my physical strength and moral fortitude. Those things are absolute terrors to twist in by hand. Does it look like the cover of an architectural magazine? No. But at least they are off the floor, and I will no longer break my ankle tripping over corrugated blue plastic while trying to fetch the barbecue.
Sunday: Brunches, Bicycles, and Aliens
Sunday was entirely booked by the Food Olympics. First, an Easter brunch at my parents' house. Then, a late afternoon Easter brunch at my in-laws'. By 5 PM, I was 80% smoked salmon and chocolate eggs.
I had grand plans to finally go play some pool to walk off the calories, but the pool hall was closed for the holiday. Plan B was initiated: a friend came over, we opened another bottle of wine, and we settled in to dissect the 2026 Tour of Flanders.
What a beautifully brutal race. Of course, my Belgian heart wished Remco or Wout could have taken the crown, but you just have to tip your hat to Pogačar. The man isn't human; he's an alien on two wheels. A more than deserved winner. It reminded me again what a massive, rolling festival the Ronde van Vlaanderen really is. Now I am fully hyped for Paris-Roubaix next Sunday!
Monday: The Agricultural Armageddon
And then came Monday.
The President of the Household (my lovely wife) officially declared Monday to be "Garden Labor Day." The target: the front lawn.
If you have never verticuted (scarified) a lawn, let me explain the process. You take a loud machine with spinning metal blades, and you mercilessly rip the soul out of your grass to remove moss and dead thatch.
I didn't just do this once. I went over 65% of the lawn five times. Then I mowed it twice.
Thankfully, I had some excellent child labor to help me push the mower around, and our black cat took up her post as the official Site Supervisor. She mostly just sat in the debris, judging our technique and ensuring we didn't miss any spots.
By the time we called it quits, we had hauled six overflowing wheelbarrows of dead moss and grass away. Six! The lawn currently looks like a disaster area—a patchy, brown battlefield.
The master plan is to tackle the remaining 35% of the yard on Wednesday, and then immediately throw down heaps of grass seed, right before the light rain that is forecasted for Thursday.
So, did I relax this weekend? Barely. Did I drink great wine, eat amazing food, organize my shed, and fundamentally traumatize my front lawn? Absolutely.
I’m going to need a weekend to recover from this weekend. Catch you all in the comments—I need to go ice my lower back!
Cheers,
Peter