From years of long habit dating back to pre-retirement when we were still in the workforce, we take things at a somewhat slower pace on Saturdays. We still regard it as our "day off", although why, when we were both working that might have been our perception when so much still had to be done, we always thought of Saturdays as leisure days is beyond understanding. We would awake later in the morning, and still do, taking our time over breakfast, eating it in comfort, later than we would during a working day.

That aside, little Riley becomes decidedly restless when his dinnertime rolls around, even if he's had his breakfast a tad late. If I'm at the computer he wonders what in the world could be more important to me than ensuring he has his dinner on time. So he will wander from wherever he happens to be (usually napping somewhere close at hand), to amble over, and give me a mental nudge. He will sit there beside me looking reproachfully up at me, and remain in that position until I 'take notice', although I've certainly taken notice before turning fully around to confront his pathetic little appeal.

Then I shove myself away from the computer desk and make for the kitchen, and he excitedly, with huge anticipation almost gambolling in glee around my feet leads the way. I haul out his little dishes and begin the usual evening preparations; his chicken soup, his natural-products kibble produced in Alberta, (lamb and Okanogan apple), shredded cooked chicken, and chopped broccoli and red bell pepper; he gets three little bowls presented to him at each meal; breakfasts consist of chicken soup again, kibble and cottage cheese with a tiny dab of organic honey in the corner; three separate bowls. At dinnertime the salad arrives in front of him once the tiny bowl of chicken soup and the one of kibble/chicken has been dispatched. And at breakfast, as soon as his chicken soup bowl and the kibble bowl have been licked clean, down comes the cottage cheese; in each instance the salad or the cheese, they're his favourites.

When he's done, in comes my husband to begin chopping up mushrooms, tomatoes and bell pepper, while I roll out the pizza dough that I've had rising. Onto which I spread tomato paste, then sprinkle herbs and spices, and then grate Parmesan, sparingly. Over that mozzarella, and then the vegetables sprinkled overall. Into the pizza drawer of our large microwave oven it goes. Enjoyed with huge relish as our traditional Saturday night evening meal.

After which we settle down to view a film, borrowed from our public library, the only use to which we put our television screen, since we don't have access to television, refusing to bother paying the toll for the scant return. Since we're fairly put off by the gratuitous violence in most Hollywood-produced films, we gravitate to European ones quite often. Import/Export was the one my husband chose, a Cannes Festival 'official selection'. A more dreary, miserable, viewing would hardly be possible, unless one takes huge joy in becoming a voyeur into the tawdry, hopeless lives of people living on the economic/social margins of European society, the exploitative predation of women, and the social attitudes that heap pitiless scorn on refugees of unemployment despair. Set in Ukraine and transitioning to Austria, it is a desolate portrayal despite that it is described as "absolutely hilarious ... powerful, and surprisingly funny" by Screen International.

To help expunge the sour taste left by its viewing, we decided we'd opt to view another film. This one "winner Sundance Film Festival, and recipient of a screenwriting award, although there must be something awry with our aesthetic taste; we tend to feel like running and never stopping as far as we can get from all such award winners. Nevertheless we watched Combination Platter, and it, in turn was actually an antidote to the misery of the previous film. Basically similar topics were covered; emigration, hopes for lifestyle improvement, unemployment, human relations and  racial/ethnic biases, and associated tribulations. This one, though, really was a winner, produced by the very colossus we had attempted escape from.