Sunday Sunday – so bad for me

What is it with Sunday afternoons and me? 

We don’t agree, and I blame both my later childhood and Radio 4 for it. Leaving aside the autobiographical bit, once the curtain hits one o’clock on a Sunday all I want to do is to fast forward and go to bed and sleep; unless the sun is shining and one can potter round the garden. It’s hugely annoying to me since, on the whole, I avoid sleeping, and there is not enough sun to go round for every Sunday afternoon God has seen fit to send us.

My one adored and perfect antidote for this variant of SAD (sunday afternoon dementia) is to have friends round for lunch: The anticipation, the last minute disagreement between me and the oven, the popping of corks, merriment and munching, three espressos and at least one heated discussion later, and before I know it it’s the evening, everyone leaving satisfied or disgruntled, with me stacking the dishwasher and being all the more happy for a joy filled afternoon.

Alas not today.

U