A four day week is the best for upping output.

So says The Times of India today, page 15 to be precise. Yes, yes, I am still of said dinosaur variety who likes the ink on the fingers and the printed page to be turned, and will leave you, dear reader to click furiously around to source the link for said article.

According to some research conducted somewhere on the planet (Washington says the dateline), where obviously some researcher was getting the heave ho from his wife for spending too much time at his lab doing such research, and needed to pronto spend quality time with the family or do the rounds of the divorce courts, upping workdays to 10 hours a day from 8 hours a day and making the weekend three days long is a great way to up productivity.

I, for one am not arguing with anything that gives me a three day weekend. I can even think about it with a hopeful smile playing on my face. I know exactly what will happen chez Manral.

The first day, aka Friday would go by in a blur of frenzied cleaning, grocery shopping, laundry and all such things which have lain, sore and neglected through the week. By the end of the day one would be sore and resentful and barking at the spouse and the child, while adjusting one’s slipping halo. The spouse and the child would zone out and watch insane movies at full volume, making little men with hammers and anvils get to work behind my eyeballs and at the base of my cranium. I would overdose myself on Vasograin and take to a darkened room. And inform the rest of the inhabitants that the door will be opened on pain of death and dismemberment, which will necessitate that promptly five seconds later the spawn of my womb will blast the door open to just ‘check up’ on me. With loud unwelcome solicitiousness.

Day 2, Saturday. I would crack an eye open in the morning gingerly, dreading the blast of sunlight. This would also be the day the maids decide to do a simultaneous bunk, leaving yours truly with enough opportunity to do cardio (aka sweeping, swabbing, dusting, etc) to last her a week. The manicure would be ruined. Dammit, the fingers would be ruined. Scrubbing vessels donot for smooth, soft holdable hands make. I would spend the next of the working week holding my hands behind me churlishly refusing to shake hands at introductions. Or, if the ensemble was ethnic, keeping the greeting ethnic too. By mid morning I would be back on Vasograin and barking at pitbull levels to get the spouse and child into being bathed and dressed and clean, and calling in for food, given that I would be in no physical or mental condition to concoct anything remotely edible. By evening I would be too sore to care about going out, and the spouse would make rude statements about traffic and crowds and how mall or restaurant visits are over rated. And we would sit at home sullenly and growl at each other over a rented DVD which would be to no one’s liking, and which the child will proceed to extract from the machine and put in his Spiderman/Superman/Batman (he has the entire collection of every movie made on the Marvel comic heroes).

By Sunday I would be waiting with bated breath for Monday and the opportunity to get back to work asap. I will begin making lists of the work to be completed. I will bring forward deadlines. I will tick off the things done on my list of to do things with a sense of relish and achievement that makes all long weekends pale in comparison. I and the spouse will not be on speaking terms with this too much togetherness over a 48 hour stretch.

What is your take on a three day weekend?