I’ve never really fully grasped the art of how to manage a proper and successful Sunday morning. A proper Sunday morning, to my brain at least is not something that should be even remotely left to chance. A proper Sunday morning should be thought out, moulded and sculpted in to something tangible and distinct. If a chap leaves a Sunday morning purely down to chance and circumstance, it simply will not happen, how could it? To my detriment this is not some new revelation, some shiny new affliction. Even as a slothsome teenager who morphed in to bloated and indolent student I had the same problem. I have always been troubled by the first part of the last day of our week.
I shall take a step back and paint my scene for you. I am indeed lying in bed and it is a Sunday morning. Te weather is blustery, grey and about as inviting as a flock of spider crabs clinging to your testicles. I have a cup of coffee on the go, my cat snuggled next to me and the rest of the day to myself and yet I am far from rested. Part of me blames the media as they are simple target to abuse. I blame them as they have framed Sunday mornings as some kind of idyllic, soft focused world where anything is possible, bowel and head wrenching hangovers do not exist and everybody is eminently fuckable. The people in these televisual treat knew what they were supposed to be doing, how to use a Sunday morning properly. And yet, I could not share in their glossy reverie, could not and cannot join their world.
As I sit, typing, my head is a whirr of contradictions, minor panics jousting with major thinkings. In the past ten minutes I have considered; mortgage payments, what to have for my tea on Wednesday, the small yet sinister stain on the bottom of my duvet, what formation Spurs will go with in their cup final team, the development of Remembrance Sunday since the 1920s, the revoltingness of the curtains throughout my rented house, the nagging ache in my lower back, what my worst personality trait is, to ring my sister, to ring my parents, to clip the one remaining and elusive claw on my cat’s paw, do I need to go for a run today as the one I did yesterday was utterly useless and the painful necessity for looking in to internet dating.
In ten minutes I have managed to cover the sublime, the pointless and the effortlessly ridiculous, all within the small and musty confines of my head. I could argue that this is actually an impressive feat, based purely on volume and range of thoughts, but I am fully aware that this would be incorrect and huge whopping lie. As ever, the art of a managing and enjoying a Sunday morning was been lost on me.