Poor Sunday. If it weren’t for the fact that Monday hangs off it like a hideous and sinister growth we’d probably all feel quite well disposed towards it. Sunday should represent the end of one week and the doorway to seven freshly minted days of possibility and opportunity. Of course what it really represents is roast meat, rubbish TV and by about 6pm, a burgeoning sense of dread.
When I was a kid, Sundays ran as follows: Church followed by a hefty lunch, an afternoon of arguing over Swingball if it was sunny or staring blankly at the TV if it was rainy, sardines on toast in front of the Antiques Roadshow and Last of The Summer Wine, then bed. Later on, homework was wedged into the schedule. Well, my attempt at homework which was usually forty minutes of doodling love hearts while listening to Take That, followed by ten minutes of scribbled rubbish, vaguely approximating the given subject matter.
Nowadays in an attempt to forget the impending horrors of Monday, I throw fun overarm at Sunday like a particularly aggressive bowler. It may involve the pub, shopping, movies, anything to create escapism. It doesn’t work, of course. Even when the fun has been sun-dappled, happy-faced, Magners advert-type fun it still dissipates to reveal the gaping, bloody maw of Monday morning.
I’m sure if you do something for a living that you actually enjoy, your Sunday evenings are pleasantly relaxing. However if, like me, you do a job you hate because you have to, Sunday evenings are cloaked in foreboding. I used to wring every last second out of my weekends. I ran a Sunday afternoon party in the upstairs room of a pub in Brixton and would be on the dancefloor from 1pm to 10pm. The party was called ‘We Continue’ and the whole ethos was about forgetting Monday and making the most of our last few hours of freedom. These days it takes me until 3pm on Tuesday afternoon to fully recover from a couple of glasses of Pinot on a Saturday so I can forget about any raucous behaviour on a Sunday night.
Why do I invest every Sunday with such malaise and misery? After all, they happen every week, surely I should just embrace it as a part of my weekend as enjoyable as Friday night or Saturday. I can’t though, I just can’t. Friday night is delicious possibility, relief at the end of another working week, fun and indulgence. Saturday is laziness, food, friends and excitement. Sunday is the countdown to another week of drudgery, the loss of freedom and the sound of strimmers wielded by reluctant husbands. It is a day of mental preparation and the move towards our work persona.
I can’t ramble on about Sunday without mentioning Morrissey who of course, wrote this:
Everyday is like Sunday/Everyday is silent and grey
Trust Morrissey to nail it. Sunday perfectly summed up by a chap who knows a thing or two about malaise.