We’ve had two houses for the long weekend, and I quite like it.

I can see why rich people have a house in the city and a house in the country, or down the coast. You can leave one version of yourself behind, dishes in the dishwasher, bills to pay, brats in private schools, and head off to your other self, with open fires and surfboards and a quad bike with a flat battery.

We kept it even simpler than that. Our second house for the weekend was next door.

We kept our cat Nina in our house and our long weekend dogsit, Betsy, in her house. Next door. Betsy came over for lunch, now and then. We walked barefoot Negronis next door, now and then, to spend some quality time with our little Westie.

The doghouse and the cathouse.

Now that daylight saving has sprung into life Nina wakes us at 6.15 instead of 5.15. That’s a win. A very small, not real, one. I’m so tired.

After coffee in bed and Wordle and Scrabble and the crossword we’re up and off to our other long weekend holiday house to walk Betsy. It’s still so early I swear the busses haven’t started yet.

People are walking home from rave parties in rabbit onesies. They’re probably homeless. Oh, the carefree life of a non-baby-boomer. Poverty and disco balls.

We have another coffee in an empty cafe – there are some consolations for being awake before the cows – and then head home with Betsy on a long leash. I cook a bacon breakfast and it is only 8.34. That’s in the mourning. I mean morning. I should still be asleep watching Joel Selwood kick that last goal of his career.

I’ve read the papers by midday Saturday. All of them. Normally I’d be flicking through the supplements about this time on a Monday night, leaning on the recycle bin.

For the first time since I’ve retired it’s almost as if there are too many hours in the day.

I’m liking the two houses thing. The problem is I can’t sleep in in either of them.