Ah, Monday. The day where my coffee needs a coffee and my brain is still operating on "Winter Time" while the rest of the world has leaped forward into the sunlit confusion of the Daylight Savings transition. If I seem a bit twitchy, it’s either the lack of sleep or the lingering trauma of trying to fit 30 Belgians into one living room.
Grab a beverage. This was a weekend for the history books—or at least for the "How Not to Be a Handyman" manual.
Friday: The Logistics of a Human Tetris Game
Friday began with the ultimate Belgian endurance test: the commute to Brussels. Four hours of my life—two hours there, two hours back—sacrificed to the gods of the Ring. I spent most of it contemplating the meaning of life and wondering if I’d make it back in time for the youngest’s birthday bash.
The guest list hit 30. Now, I love my family and friends, but 30 people in a standard living room is less of a party and more of a high-stakes game of Human Tetris. We managed to wedge everyone in, though the atmosphere quickly reached "sauna" levels of humidity.
Then came the Great Pistolet Scandal of 2026.
I made the classic tactical error: I over-calculated the demand for "hard" pistolets. I thought, “Surely, people want that authentic, roof-of-your-mouth-shredding crunch for their burgers?” Narrator voice: They did not. Apparently, my guests value their dental structural integrity, because everyone swarmed the soft buns like they were made of gold. I am now the proud owner of enough rock-hard bread rolls to build a small defensive fortification around my house.
By 11:30 PM, the last guest drifted out. By 12:30 AM, we had cleared the worst of the debris, leaving the mountain of dishes as a "gift" for my future self. Future me was not amused.
Saturday: Man vs. Lightbulb (The Basement Chronicles)
Saturday morning was supposed to be productive. I decided it was finally time to replace the "sad basement bulb"—you know the one, just a lonely wire dangling from the ceiling like a scene from a low-budget horror movie. We’d had the new lamp sitting around for ages.
Pro tip: If you are not a "handy" person, every simple task is actually a boss fight in disguise.
The hole in the ceiling tiles (dallen) was massive. I couldn't just hang the lamp over it because there was nothing for the screws to bite into. I tried to drill nearby, but the edges just crumbled like my resolve. I had to move the whole operation a few centimeters over, drilling new holes and praying to the gods of masonry that the lamp would at least mostly cover the original crater.
I am not a craftsman. I am a man who successfully didn't electrocute himself or bring the ceiling down. When that light finally stayed up, I felt like I’d built the Burj Khalifa. I stood there in the pantry, admiring my crooked handiwork with more pride than is socially acceptable.
The Pitch Side Drama
The afternoon was dedicated to football. First, a quick scout of a friend’s son's game, then the main event: our eldest's match against the league leaders.
This wasn't just a game; it was a grudge match. There was some "unfinished business" from the previous encounter, and you could feel the tension in the air. It was glorious. Our boys pulled off a gritty 2-1 win, effectively ruining the opposition's hopes of clinching the title on our turf. There is a specific kind of petty satisfaction in that, isn't there?
The only downside: our eldest had to sub himself out at halftime. His groin is acting up again, which is a worry. When you're a parent of a semi-pro or active athlete, you spend 50% of your time cheering and the other 50% wondering if that limp is "walk it off" serious or "call the physio" serious.
I capped the night off by trying to watch the Red Devils. I managed exactly 45 minutes before my eyes staged a walkout. I missed the second half, but honestly, my bed was the real MVP of Saturday night.
Sunday: The Agony and the Moussaka
Sunday started with the inevitable: facing the dish-mountain from Friday. Once the house stopped smelling like burgers and dish soap, I headed out to watch our second team in a local derby.
It was a "relegation six-pointer" against another team from our municipality. Local pride was on the line. Unfortunately, local pride took a massive bruising. A 5-1 defeat. It was a total demolition. With only three games left, the math is looking grimmer than my basement ceiling. They have to win next week, or it’s "Hello, Lower Division."
Despite the score, there’s something irreplaceable about amateur Sunday football—the smell of the grass, the overly passionate shouting from the sidelines, and the inevitable post-game analysis over a cold pint.
We finished the weekend at a Greek-themed charity dinner. Nothing heals the soul like excessive amounts of moussaka and grilled meat. I followed that up with a few rounds of pool with the lads, pretending I knew how to aim, and finally crawled into bed.
The Monday Verdict
So here I am. It’s Monday. The "Summer Time" clock change has robbed me of an hour I desperately needed. My basement has a new light, my eldest has a sore groin, our local team is in the doldrums, and I have a bag of hard pistolets that could be used as lethal projectiles.
But hey, we won the grudge match. And in the end, isn't that what really matters?
How was your weekend? Did anyone else survive a DIY project or a tactical bread error? Let me know in the comments!
Cheers,
Peter