It may be becoming clear from yesterday’s entry that I find Sundays the most difficult day to find anything interesting to write about. This is probably because most of my Sabbath days follow a really similar protocol. Basically, after the previously reported weekly battle of wills with my alarm, I generally harrumph about the house until it is time to go for Sunday lunch with my Mom (this week I had a Leek & Potato soup for starter followed by a lamb dinner). After this, I drive back home and harrumph about procrastinating over a domestic chore I should really be doing, until what I like to call ‘Antiques Roadshow’ syndrome finally kicks in. This is a condition that I have suffered from since being at school and no matter what time of year, it always consumes me at a certain scheduled time on a Sunday afternoon. Its name may make it sound like a mild, almost quaint little affliction; but as a seasoned sufferer, I can promise you it is anything but. Symptomatically it’s like becoming briefly overcome by searing form of clinical depression as you yet again anticipate the cruel horrors of another working (or school) week ahead. Actually I’m probably mixing literal meanings with simile there.
Having been keeping these writings going for just over a month, I’m already noticing some derivative patterns from one week to the next, and it is fair to conclude that my Sundays are in a rut. But thanks to the power of this blog, I am at least now conscious of the fact, and can now I can offer myself the opportunity to change my ways. If I shake Sundays up a little, maybe I could also shake my dreaded ‘Antiques Roadshow’ condition once and for all. Yes, I reckon some Sunday recklessness might be just the thing. I’ll start from next week. Maybe I’ll order a Mushroom Stroganoff for dinner instead of a full roast; and then we’ll just see how things go on from there (it’ll have to be small amendments to begin with obviously – there’s no need to go crazy right away or anything!).
The more observant of you might be wondering why I am writing so much about Sunday under Monday’s entry. You’re right. It makes absolutely no sense on any level. It is confusing to the reader, and does little favour for your writer either. Wasn’t I just moaning about having so little to write about Sundays? Surely by dragging an entry about Sundays over an extra day, I am actually being contradictory, making the whole of this entry a complete oxymoron. Not just an oxy one either, but a proper moron. If I find it so difficult to find things to write about on a Sunday, then surely I am making life much more difficult for myself; carelessly using up my already modest supply of Sunday-based resources and leaving even less to write about on future Sabbaths.
But as self-referential this entry may appear, it isn’t just me trying to be all tenuously ‘post-modern’ again. The reason why yesterday was significant was because for once I was offered a rare, brief respite from my usual ‘Antiques Roadshow’ gloom. It was caused, quite simply, by novelty weather conditions. Yes, that’s right - I couldn’t help feeling a childish sense of glee upon seeing the snow falling down on the ground. Call me fickle, but the sight of snow still excites me. I have carried this feeling from a young age, just like I have carried the lows of the ‘Antiques Roadshow’.
God knows what I was so happy about. The snow may have caused schools to shut for the day, but it certainly didn’t close my workplace. In reality, all it managed to achieve was to make a more inconvenient working day. I had to stand around scraping the snow off my vehicle before I could get in it – which was most impractical with the weather being so cold and all. Then I had to feel terrified as my car slid around the dual carriageway, which was also impractical, because by having to travel at 20mph the journey lasted much longer, leading to a more postponed feeling of fear. Then I had to get from the car park by walking a bit like an elderly penguin to avoid losing my footing on the slippy floor. As I trudged to work, I was also slightly paranoid that at some point, some unoccupied youths might throw a snowball at me. What on earth would I do if something like that happened? I mean what is the protocol? Would I just have to accept it and degradingly walk on through the crowds having visibly procured a lump of icy water on my person? Wouldn’t this ‘take no notice’ approach just make the kids more adamant to provoke a reaction, encouraging them to throw even more - one fluffy snowball of humiliation after the next? What the hell would I do? If I were to fight back, everyone would witness the spectacle of my embarrassing over arm throw; a manouvre so weedy, it is reminiscent of a young girl with one arm, trying out front-crawl for the first time. If anything, this would be an even more embarrassing sight than simply running away from troublesome youths. And the sight of me trying to run on snow in my ‘careful’ penguin-like manner is laughable enough in itself. But even if I did have an adept arm of strength and precision, would it really be right for a thirty year old man to be engaged in a snowball fight with young kids who he didn’t even know? The only thing worse, would be being snow-lynched by people of an older age, as I suspect my persecution would be lead up to a sinister and violent personal attack.
God, it’s all such a minefield.
The torture of hypothetics doesn’t stop there either. Even when I made it safely into work (thankfully having avoided a single snowball attack), I could see through the windows that snow was falling again, and for the rest of the day, I became burdened with a constant worry about having to drive home.
In fairness, the journey wasn’t too bad. The only time I lost control was when I turned into my street. Rather irritatingly, I slid into the kerb on the using the side of the car where the ball-points are already borderline MOT-failure.
So in conclusion, the Antiques Roadshow is simply a metaphor of dread for the impending return to school. Meanwhile my subconscious link between snowfall, and the anticipation of a possible day’s holiday simply isn’t relevant anymore. Both of these sensory stimulants are merely illusory.
Except the Antiques Roadshow one.
Sun 1st Feb 2009
Most Sundays I set my alarm clock at a time which is far too over ambitious. This is usually inspired by guilt, having failed to achieve all the things I intended to do on Saturday. Come Saturday evening, I am adamant that I will get an early start in order to make the most of my remaining weekend; maybe even kick-start my body with an early session at the gym. This always seems a good plan, because when I set the alarm I am in a state of Saturday night of alcohol-fuelled bravado; but paradoxically it is the same drunkenness which actually makes getting up so much more challenging when the harsh reality of morning arrives.
So come Sunday morning, I’ll be abruptly roused by the cruel shrill tones of my alarm. But I do not jump from the covers. Any prior resolve to seize the day soon subsides to the temptation that being a Sunday, I can have one last lie in.
Not even bothering to get out of bed to cross the room, I let the alarm call ring out until silence is resumed and I can sink peacefully back into my pillow. Even after all these years, I still never seem to learn the basic lesson that ‘bearing out of the bell’ is only ever of short-term value: What makes this short-sightedness even sillier, is that my alarm is of the sort that lets you snooze a while, say five or ten minutes, and then proceeds to chirp off again.
On any usual weekday, the second alarm is the one which will make me conscious of the passing time and rouse me into action. But this is Sunday – I do not have the same urgency to get up. Maybe I should have just turned the alarm off altogether when it sounded off the first time, but I reason that only by riding it out, I am able to fully appreciate the novelty value of being allowed to lie-in past this second alarm call.
Another five or ten minutes pass in silence. The digital chiming springs in to life once again; and once again I do not. Indeed, I cannot. For this is now much deeper than a simple dozing disruption; it has become a battle of wills - a moral issue of Man versus Machine. Who will give up first? Will this aural torment eventually force me to step from under the covers and turn the alarm off once and for all? Or will I be able to stand (or lie) strong for long enough to weary this inanimate object of its perpetual wailing?
The answer?
Of course I will.
The stupid thing never manages to maintain its bleeping interruptions for more than an hour. My laziness is much more motivated than that! And the most tragic thing of all is that this sorry victory of wills will often actually be the greatest achievement I’ll manage all day.
So come Sunday morning, I’ll be abruptly roused by the cruel shrill tones of my alarm. But I do not jump from the covers. Any prior resolve to seize the day soon subsides to the temptation that being a Sunday, I can have one last lie in.
Not even bothering to get out of bed to cross the room, I let the alarm call ring out until silence is resumed and I can sink peacefully back into my pillow. Even after all these years, I still never seem to learn the basic lesson that ‘bearing out of the bell’ is only ever of short-term value: What makes this short-sightedness even sillier, is that my alarm is of the sort that lets you snooze a while, say five or ten minutes, and then proceeds to chirp off again.
On any usual weekday, the second alarm is the one which will make me conscious of the passing time and rouse me into action. But this is Sunday – I do not have the same urgency to get up. Maybe I should have just turned the alarm off altogether when it sounded off the first time, but I reason that only by riding it out, I am able to fully appreciate the novelty value of being allowed to lie-in past this second alarm call.
Another five or ten minutes pass in silence. The digital chiming springs in to life once again; and once again I do not. Indeed, I cannot. For this is now much deeper than a simple dozing disruption; it has become a battle of wills - a moral issue of Man versus Machine. Who will give up first? Will this aural torment eventually force me to step from under the covers and turn the alarm off once and for all? Or will I be able to stand (or lie) strong for long enough to weary this inanimate object of its perpetual wailing?
The answer?
Of course I will.
The stupid thing never manages to maintain its bleeping interruptions for more than an hour. My laziness is much more motivated than that! And the most tragic thing of all is that this sorry victory of wills will often actually be the greatest achievement I’ll manage all day.
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