Fuck working Mondays. I’ve got better things to do.

Yeah, you heard me. I don’t work on Mondays, and you know what? You shouldn’t either (it doesn’t have to be a Monday, but you’ll get the gist).

See, weekends are busy for me. With three kids, two step-kids, and coaching grassroots football, there’s no “slow down” button on Saturdays and Sundays. It’s family time — games, matches, and chaos; my living room always resembles a makeshift camp, chairs pushed together, blankets draped over the top, picnic tables, hair-dressing salons, baby feeding areas, anything young girls can imagine — it’s wonderful — full-on family mode, running from one thing to the next. So when Monday rolls around, I don’t drag myself into work mode. I take it back for me.

Here’s how it goes: I drop the kids at school, my partner heads off to work, and suddenly the house is silent. No chatter, no football boots to lace up, and no one yelling for snacks. Just me and the dogs. And that’s when my Monday starts: a peaceful walk, a bit of fresh air, and time to let my mind wander.

After that? It depends. I’m not tied to an office or a schedule; my calendar belongs to me and me alone (that one extends beyond a Monday). This idea of shared calendars where others can view it and stake a claim on your time is the scourge of the modern workplace.

Today, I’m catching up with some old work colleagues for coffee and a bite to eat.

Space — we all need it, a time when we’re not endlessly trying to cram more work into less space — this is the opposite, and I’m all the more productive for it. Creating room for “me”, a time to think, reflect and plan — the life beyond work.

So yeah, fuck working Mondays. I’ve got better things to do.