Alan Partridge said it best, "Sunday, bloody Sunday". There really is no excuse for me to dislike Sunday any more though. I don't have work tomorrow, or school. That ball of anxiety weighing down on my chest because I haven't even started my homework (too busy watching Bullseye), or the simmering resentment festering at the workplace to look forward to - no more.
Yet, Sunday still feels lacklustre, disappointing or even pointless.
I woke up well rested at a friends' flat in Cardiff after a thoroughly relaxing and enjoyable Saturday evening. I was treated to endless tea and delicious freshly made gluten-free pancakes.This Sunday was an exception, a very rare variation on my usual routine.
The internet lied, said there'd be a train leaving Grangetown at 10:14. There were to be NO trains leaving Grangetown this morning. No worries, I walked to Central station instead, it was dry and quite mild... I missed my train by 42 seconds. If only I'd chanced it at the crossing instead of waiting for the green man, eh?
On the 11 o'clock train, the thud of Sunday sadness unexpectedly landed in my heart. Everyone seemed lonely, bits of overhead mobile phone conversation were boring and whiny. "I missed the bus", "I'm starving, but there wasn't time to eat first", "I'm soooo tired"...
My hair was greasy, limp. My face; bare, plain, and blotchy from the over-picked zits I am currently sporting. This added to the sense of self-dissatisfaction.
Unfinished chores greeted me at home, along with a fetid stench of damp from the bathroom. Sunday roast to prepare, but no enthusiasm to help me along. A neighbour passes by the window, I listen out for his inevitable snorting, hacking and gobbing, I hear it. This is stupid, it makes me feel rather sick, but I can't help listening, and tutting. Other neighbours pull endless supermarket bags out from the boots of their cars, magician's hanky style. I sigh heavily.
I conclude, life is good, everyone is OK, I have no deadlines, there is no pressure on me. Thank goodness though, that 'every day' is not 'like Sunday'.
Yet, Sunday still feels lacklustre, disappointing or even pointless.
I woke up well rested at a friends' flat in Cardiff after a thoroughly relaxing and enjoyable Saturday evening. I was treated to endless tea and delicious freshly made gluten-free pancakes.This Sunday was an exception, a very rare variation on my usual routine.
The internet lied, said there'd be a train leaving Grangetown at 10:14. There were to be NO trains leaving Grangetown this morning. No worries, I walked to Central station instead, it was dry and quite mild... I missed my train by 42 seconds. If only I'd chanced it at the crossing instead of waiting for the green man, eh?
On the 11 o'clock train, the thud of Sunday sadness unexpectedly landed in my heart. Everyone seemed lonely, bits of overhead mobile phone conversation were boring and whiny. "I missed the bus", "I'm starving, but there wasn't time to eat first", "I'm soooo tired"...
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| Temporary Sunday sadness syndrome |
My hair was greasy, limp. My face; bare, plain, and blotchy from the over-picked zits I am currently sporting. This added to the sense of self-dissatisfaction.
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| If only that were my kitchen and image |
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| How unappetising does that look? |
I conclude, life is good, everyone is OK, I have no deadlines, there is no pressure on me. Thank goodness though, that 'every day' is not 'like Sunday'.
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