Chester-le-Street with Griffin

Saturday. I never work Saturdays.

I open one eye on a Saturday. It's sunny. I text Griffin, a delightful friend with several degrees in art history. We meet at the bottom of my street and walk to the bus station. We grab a bus to Chester-le-Street, an underrated destination in the North East of England that has dozens of charity shops and a flee market on Saturdays. We methodically check them all, rejoicing in our quirky unexpected finds. Then we retire to a coffee place. Not Starbucks. This town is not part of the Starbucks gallaxy. In fact the place doesn't even sell coffee, just tea. We're so excited that we dig back our finds from our bags unto the table: a cravate, some mugs, some books, an evening gown, a tiara. We gossip like crazy about everyone we know and some we don't know.

When we get back to Durham, there is always a standing invitation to meet up later in the day, for cake, or the following day, for dinner, or Monday, for an artsy movie. We never follow through, we get caught up in the other aspects of our lives. Until the next sunny Saturday, when I gleefully declare to my new flame that I'd like to go shopping with Griff again. If I'm being honest, the faint hint of disappointment in said flame's eyes just adds to the fun.