A Good Sunday

The injustice is that you leave your best behind when you exit the office for the day. The best you have to give, your best energy, application, and strength, most of your creativity and inventiveness, and quite a lot of your daily allotment of sense of humour – left behind at a desk, in a room, on a floor of a building owned or rented by a company that is not yours and has no real interest in you as a person. And you lug your carcass home, with barely enough vitality to display a shell of your best you to the ones you love. Like a silhouette – but when you peek behind the screen its still a shadow – there is no substance at all.

And there’s very little that can be done about it. In some cases nothing. And it simmers away, this unfairness, but you focus on the weekend. There will be time to recharge batteries and feel better and become energised, and conversation will sprout wings and take flight. You will be witty. You will enjoy your own company, and know others are enjoying it too. But does this happen? Sort of. A bit. Sometimes.

Yesterday Laetitia and I decided to make the most of the fact that it was a Sunday and the first day after Daylight Saving. We used the extra hour given us (and I always think of Daylight Saving as stealing an hour away) to go grocery shopping fairly early, return and unpack the bags and put things away, have a sort of brunch with the baguette and a few of the sausages we’d bought fried in a pan, before leaving again, to buy a whipper snipper (strangely known almost universally as a line trimmer now), and go to one of those car washes with the big roller brushes and squirty water which you drive through. When we got back, armed with alcohol supplies and weekly train tickets, Laetitia assembled the garden power tool while I watched The Sunday Roast (a rather infantile rugby league TV show), before we went out and mowed and snipped and edged. After that was some gardening and watering, and a shower and preparing pumpkin soup together, which, on my part involved a lot of standing around and trying not to knock things over, and trying not to spray thick, molten, almost soup across Laetitia’s face when she said to be careful of the whizzer. I was trying to be careful, but could feel the device getting away from me and perhaps I was lucky there wasn’t an injury to me, who would have deserved it, or Laetitia, who wouldn’t.

It was a good day. I’d prefer to sit with a good book, maybe radio rugby league commentary in one ear, and a bottomless glass of red – as an ideal weekend scenario – in my dressing gown, wearing my slippers, served canapés by Kendra Wilkinson every quarter of an hour. Actually I wouldn’t. Kendra is not someone I would actually want to meet at all. And while I value alone time, very much so, I enjoyed spending the day with my favourite person.

It’s not all bad.

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Published in: on April 4, 2011 at 7:57 pm  Leave a Comment  

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