Sunday, the day of rest… or, the day in which you feel you are allowed to be tired, lazy, inactive and, quite probably, hungover.
My body is very good to me; whilst my house-mates crawl out of their dark cocoons, puffy eyed and red faced, at midday, I wake up all ‘annoyingly chirpy and fresh faced’ (apparently) a minute before my tinkling alarm comes in at a modest 10am. We’d been out the night before – welcoming back a friend who went travelling in the wilds of South East Asia for two and a half months. For some reason, though I had a few cocktails and a fruity gin concoction at one of London’s Gin Bars, I am able to feel wonderfully normal… with the help of a large glass of water before sleep and my big, fluffy duvet consumed me at 2am.
So then I am confronted with a Sunday – the free day. A day in which I can watch an entire series of Gossip Girl (current guilty pleasure) and not feel guilty about it (other than that it is Gossip Girl).
Equally, the idea of food and meals on a slightly lethargic Sunday becomes blurred and confused. Second breakfasts, yes, absolutely acceptable. I may have woken up at 10am wanting to be healthy after an evening of semi-debauchery and 2am Coco Pops so ate some fruit and yoghurt, but then, an hour later with the stirring of one house-mate, I am easily persuaded to get a fresh, warm, and deliciously greasy sausage roll from our Farmer’s Market. The thing is, the market is only here on Sundays, it’s good to support the local, hard working farmers, and I did lots of calorie-burning dancing last night, so that totally warrants a second-breakfast-sausage-roll, right? I thought so too.
For me, meal times are non-existent on a lazy Sunday… an enormous roast dinner might be eaten at 4pm, which really is quite an odd time because I end up risking being sickeningly hungry beforehand and probably spoiling my appetite by munching on some cheese on toast with dribblings of Worcestershire sauce at 2pm – the latest I could stretch to without passing out. (I love food.) So then lunch comes at 4pm and I think I’m hungry, or at least I tell myself I should be because I’ve been bloody looking forward to this roast. Then I over eat and have way too many Yorkshire puddings, justified by the fact that I only have them with a roast, which is rarely consumed on my stingy budget, so I scoff as many as I can thinking I’ll regret it later if I miss out. Then, of course, after the meal I feel as though I have grown a watermelon in my stomach and am sure that, if I have a deep, relaxing Sunday bath, I would sink and drown.
Later, if I have not already sunk to my death in the bath, at 9pm my food-coma has surpassed and I feel oddly hungry again. I turn to snacking. I consider that little nibbles of food like a few crackers with Camembert here, and a tiny slice (or two or three) of custard tart there, is not actually a substantial meal, so I try not to feel bad about eating so late. Though I know that nibbles are just an endless cycle of curiosity eating and can amount to quite a lot! Eating this late then often gives me insomnia because my poor body has to kick start its already worn out digestive system and work the night shift after already doing a full day on the job. I’m so sorry little tummy.
All right, food aside, what’s good to do with a Sunday when really you just don’t want to do anything, and maybe you’ve already watched so much Gossip Girl on Netflix that you risk using up your entire month’s internet allowance in one afternoon? Well, I chose to sort out my earring box. That’s right. It felt like a task only suited to a Sunday. I paired them up, threw out the broken ones, dusted out the box and had my sister (who is very handy with a pair of pliers) fix the ones which have lost the little poky bit that goes through the ear. Yeah, I can’t think of what it’s called either.
Then I turn to polishing my black leather boots that are so loved yet so neglected. Suitable Sunday accomplishment, me thinks. I tidy my room. This task essentially involves moving things around or out of sight and folding things away into places that in the moment I think is ideally suitable and organised, but will then forget in the next few days when I actually want to find said item and do not see it in its usual abandoned position in the middle of my desk. I avoid doing any actual, productive tidying. Vacuuming and dusting is totally out of the question. In fact, I consider wearing sunglasses whilst in my bedroom so that I do not feel obliged to go the whole hog and just do it. Instead, I just can’t see the dust! I’ll do it on Monday.
I might drink copious amounts of tea, always making batches of four because my sloth-like house-mates turn into mushy mounds of glee as they see a steaming cuppa hovering in front of their faces which are no longer reddened, but instead the chalky, iffy shade of wallpaper paste. I consider making biscuits to go with said cuppa, knowing that my house-mates would just melt with pleasure and I’d be placed so high in their good books that they may as well give me permanent residence. But then I realise I would actually have to get fully dressed (still being presently half pyjama-d) and leave the house to actually purchase the ingredients for these biscuits. It all seems like too much to fit into approximately 12 hours so my house-mates had better just be grateful with the darn tea service, thank you very much.
Then, as my house-mates reach a slightly more human, pinky shade of existence, we might watch a few episodes of House, because we love Hugh Laurie and we think that, as it’s now evening, we can stomach watching a hospital drama and the potential blood and sickness that accompanies it.
Then, maybe, just maybe, I find some time in my clearly busy schedule, to write a WordPress post all about my slightly pointless, yet strangely satisfying Sunday. Enjoy, dear WordPressers, I hope that if your Sunday is more proactive than mine, that it is no less satisfying. Ta-ta.