Sunday mornings may just be the worst thing the Romans invented, besides killing Catholics. Lets face it, waking up on a Sunday morning is hitting the ground after the glowing, free-falling freedom that is a Saturday night. You lie there with the sun taunting you through the curtain crack. Laughing at your semi-conscious body dealing with the reality of the situation you find yourself in by coiling bedding every-which-way any appendage can. Not even the comforting the bandages of a duvet can stop the internal bleeding that Sunday has caused.
We are all prisoners of time. Saturday is our walk in the yard, our taste of freedom. Sunday is the guard that stands by the cell door reminding you Monday will slam the bars shut and the four walls of your chosen life sentence will bind you again. We all despair as the weekend slips through our fingers faster than the proverbial sands of time. But deserts are infinite, bound only by horizons. Weekend sand is not even enough to sufficiently fill the leaky sand box we are all hell bent on playing in. As quickly as Friday fills it up, the box drains of all joy.
Makes you want to give up mud pies and sand castles forever. But life is full of Get Out of Jail Free cards, you just have to land on the right square (right after Lexington before Bond St). In last weekends game of Monopoly, I rolled a 6!
Sunday morning came, there was no sun, thanks to some handy clouds and the Enya soundtrack of rain falling kept all the morning time sounds hushed. I'm not ashamed to say that instead of the usual Sunday's vice grip of terror, I was only teetering on the verge of sheer panic and chaos. Then I got distracted by the smell of coffee being busily brewed by Russell (of the Hobbs family, a cunning bunch who are great in the kitchen). Next thing there was banging, sizzling, crashing, flipping, frying, toasting, popping and a cacophony of other -ing words that would make your hair stand on end.
Still, having not moved from my spot on the bed, nearest the window furthest from the door leading to the cave echoing with -ing words, my body was confused. Checking that it was, in fact, Sunday and life as we knew was, in fact, over, I sat waiting like a girl on the other end of a phone call with nothing but breathing sounds coming out of the receiver. Run up the stairs! Run out the door! Do something, you silly bitch! Frozen, I sat tangled in bedding.
Then, the unthinkable happened. I was presented with a plate of British Best: eggs, bacon, toast, juice, coffee, the works. Although, I take issue with eating in bed, petitions and motions were passed to amend said act with a temporary interdict. And what should have been an invalid spilling food on sleepwear, was one of the most entertaining meals of my jail sentence. Chicken and pigs are to be congratulated on their tireless endeavours and commitment to the breakfast table. Champions of escapism, and the key to feeling the beams of freedom one more time before the week starts.
