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.


13 thoughts on “Sunday

  1. As you get older you find that dread seeps into a Saturday evening too. For me, every Saturday night is like New Years Eve. You know you should be having a memorable and fulfilling time but the sheer pressure of making it enjoyable and countable causes it to be the usual nothingness and you spend Sunday sulking about another wasted weekend.

  2. You’ve nailed it bang on the head! Even when there is nothing drastic happening on Monday, the dread can still be there!

  3. Agreed. Even the plethora of televised sport which has shifted to Sundays – football, Formula One, Twenty20 cricket – is only a temporary distraction from the impending doom of the first alarm clock of the week and the sinking feeling of returning to all the crap you left unfinished some 60 hours ago 😦

  4. Why? Why? Why, did I just read your blog? I’ve got an interview tomorrow and it’s just heartened that dread even more. Think I’m going to be sick…. Bleuuuuurrrrggghhhhhh!

  5. Spot. On. I tend to avoid pretty much everyone on a Sunday as I’m as much fun as a documentary on shower curtain mould. I just baton down the hatches and mope my face off in the flat. A pint or movie distracts me for exactly the length of the movie or drink, then I’m back to the hardcore dreading, Meh.

  6. Yes yes yes. Yes. I have next week off and I cannot tell you how much that has made this Sunday so enjoyable.

  7. Sunday evenings represent the absolute nadir of my personal energy reserves. After a weekend spent cramming in all the stuff I was too knackered to do during the week, I’m less rested than at 5pm on Friday. The intensity of serial parenting has worn me to the quick, and never is this more keenly felt than Sunday evenings.

  8. As someone who works in a hotel Sunday is my Friday. I don’t work Mon/Tues so I get the feelings you all get on a Tuesday night. The blog still runs true, it’s just a Tuesday for me.

    @carol34uk on Twitter.

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