Hello to all and any readers out there who have joined me and all the others on WordPress today. I’ve started to notice recently, that I really am turning into middle-aged TwentySomething. Sundays, are fast becoming my favouritest of days [used to be Thursdays], wherein I bask in the enjoyment of fruitless activities and feel somewhat like I want to live in a Beatrix Potter book.
In this new year, I have seen an enormous change in many aspects of my life, the broody nature to find your own nest and start to command your own life starts by ‘liking Sundays’. Instead of Sundays always being the day of ‘oh shit’s ‘ouch my head’s and ‘oh fuck I’ve got so much to finish’s’es’sss [never know how to finish that!]. Sundays develop into a new creature altogether; you tend not to mind when you’re woken before 10am, in fact it becomes quite nice to watch TV in bed with the blinds Open, which, having always been a lock down affair is rather refreshing for me.
Sundays become a day of intrigue, a day for exploring. The Incredibles like to do gardening, yomping [bit like rambling with more of a stomp] and tinkering, oh! and throw in a Grand Prix or 2. Batman is still in the ‘Sundays are for hiding’ club usually joined by a hung over Robin sleeping somewhere dark and quiet. Me, I’m in the exploring stage, where I don’t really want to do anything, but I’ve got to do something, so I like to discover information; new things, funny things, serious things and exciting things. But, I want to be inside a Beatrix Potter book to do it.
Now don’t say I’m mad, but Sundays right now, for me, are so evocative of the bright springtime scenes Beatrix Potter wrote about. A cute little watermill cottage surrounded by forest and fields, with dusky pink roses growing over the door. I wish I had a little English den to call my own, where my writing room would overlook the steady stream that flows from the mill, the wildlife and springtime scent in the air.
Sunday’s are quintessentially English to me, the demeanor of a Sunday is hardly like a New Yorker, no, no way, they are definitely Monday’s, with their passion and beautiful brash-ness, New Yorkers couldn’t and wouldn’t be a sunday. And I mean, well, a Parisian would always be a Wednesday afternoon, there’s something magical, almost imaginary about a Wednesday afternoon we often pass it off, but to be in Paris on a Wednesday afternoon, well, you would stay out all night.
And this is, if I’m honest why Sundays are just so English. They are over polite, full of all the boring bits the rest of the week doesn’t want, they are slow and uneventful, and in many ways entirely pointless once detached from all the other bits that make is a ‘Week’. But therein lies the beauty of a Sunday and in a way England too.
A Sunday is a mish-mash day, where everything and, in a lot of places, everyone, gets together and celebrates something or other. Sundays are a day when you relaxing-ly work, having to have something to ‘occupy our time’. Sundays are a day that the majority of people actually for once all do the exact same thing, for on a Sunday, young old, black, white, posh, not, working, unemployed, educated, not….the majority of us on a Sunday morning, will be laying in bed, in pyjamas, or not, exuding that same sigh of ‘aaaaah, Sunday’. Once this happens to you, once you first become aware of the happy Sunday Sigh, you too, have become ‘easy like a sunday morning’, join the community my friends you just had a Lionel moment, you are truly blessed!
Happy blogging, Cheers for Reading,