Sundays aren’t always lazy days of lie-ins and reading the papers.
To be honest, I’ve never really read the papers anyway. The magazines inside them maybe yes, but not the papers. Too real. Too newsy, taking me away from the orb of my own experience and the daydreams I prefer.
Sometimes on Sundays you have to get up early or even want to get up early. You start the same as any other day: tea, big cup, no exceptions. Shower, breakfast. Things to do. Always something to do. Lunch and tidying up, clearing away. More tea.
Nothing lazy about the day at all.
And then out for some errands. A lot of traffic on the roads and so it seems that other people aren’t having relaxing days either. They’re out there - here - too. On the road. Commuting like it’s a work day but in less of a hurry.
An over-cautious blue Yaris. A vintage matte-black Porsche. Lots of powerful cars never reaching their potential because it’s Sunday.
Before that, an argument over who will go up into the loft and get that thing. You know the thing that you’d forgotten you had but now suddenly need and it disrupts the whole day. You need it. Now. Like right now. It’s just out of reach up there, laughing down on your head from a dark and spider-filled nook. Don’t even get me started on the tins of paint that are up there, saved, just in case, but that will never be used. By the time they are needed, they will be so far past their best you won’t even be able to lever the lids off. And if you do manage it, you’ll most certainly break a nail. Or a finger. Or wrench some brutal damage on the only good screwdriver you own. The Phillips, probably. (Sorry Mr Phillips.)
And by the time you’ve resolved everything and been out and back and done a few loads of washing and folded up the wash from a few days ago and made a meal: the day has meandered away leaving in its wake the scent of Sunday Night Dread.
Can that really be a thing when you don’t actually go in to a place of work? Surely not. But there is an incredible and complex psychology that makes Sunday nights feel somewhat grim; layered in a mysterious fog that only thickens as the hours tick on by. More tea. Make a to-do list. Make the week ahead seem fun and alive and relevant and not like the last. Of course it won’t be anyway: you’re older. Just slightly, but still. Tick, tick.
There is something good though - I found this amazing place where an abundance of wild blackberries are just begging to be picked. They’re protruding gently over and through a scratch of hedge on the way to the Post Office, and when I looked a bit closer, there were more than I thought, then a whole patch of bracken and bramble over a waist-height wall. I thought of climbing in but it felt rude; not right somehow.
But maybe I should go back. Tomorrow. Just brazen it out with a big Tupperware to stash the spoils of my autumn victory?
Yes. A plan.
Sundays proffer the perfect occasion to brood plans from tiny asides; plans that burgeon and grow.
Plans are good, and so are days when you only just manage to… drift. You’ve probably done more than you think.
Sundays are great. One of my favourite days when I think about it. Better than Monday’s that’s for sure, though Monday’s have a lot more going for them on the productivity front. And maybe more fruit. In Tupperware. But it all started with Sunday, in a way.
Sometimes Sundays are like blackberries. Dark and cosy and fruity and soft. Halt the clock while I revel in the sensation of it for just a little bit longer.