Sun 28th June 2009

Sundays. What exactly are they FOR? I am sorry if what I am about to say makes Jesus cry, but its official; Sundays are rubbish. I always suspected as much, yet there’s been a niggling doubt in my mind. In the past I thought my dislike of the Sabbaths was because they were always a groggy comedown from Saturday’s alcohol indulgences. But now I have checked through eyes of full-consciousness and sobriety, I can now objectively verify that Sundays are just plain rubbish. And don’t talk to me about what a lovely hot summer’s day it’s been either. If anything, the nice weather only made it worse. Personally I wish it had it lashed down. At least it would have been a more honest representation of the Sunday vibe. You can’t polish a turd.

Actually I’ve just researched this matter on the internet and apparently you can polish a turd; either by lacquering it, baking it to remove all the moisture, adding a caking agent or allowing it to fossilise. It also says you could laminate it, but this would be a bit of cheat because you’d actually be polishing the shell rather than the faecal matter itself (honestly, I appreciate the fact that people need hobbies, but can you seriously believe some of the pedantic drivel that some people clog the cyberspace up with?)

In case you can’t tell, I am feeling bitter. If you’ll remember a few entries ago, I stated my intention to have a weekend away at Shell Island. Then as soon as I saw the downpour on Friday afternoon, I showed my trademark lack of resilience, immediately pulling out of the trip. But it seems that those who had persevered ended up being rewarded with glorious weather. I, on the other hand, went for a Sunday roast. Now usually I love Sunday dinner. You ask anyone who knows me and they’ll tell you as much. But the trouble is that hot weather doesn’t lend itself well to a Sunday roast. And on days like today, the consumption of such a dish is more a task than a pleasure. Honestly, attending that plate was like stoking an engine furnace. At least when you embark on a rigorous task, you expect that it might make you sweat, but heavy perspiration is not a pastime I wish to indulge in when I am at my leisure. I may have soldiered on, but couldn’t help resenting having paid good money for the privilege of such hard work. I never thought I’d see myself typing these words, but I longed for a salad.

At one point the chef came over and asked if we had enough gravy. He needn’t have bothered. I was sweating so much that by the time I finished, that plate was awash with more gravy than when I started. What a strange and deeply unpleasant phenomena this must have looked to the young and rather attractive waitress who collected our plates. I actually felt a bit embarrassed. This made me sweat even more.

Maybe I am being too hard on Sundays. After all, this was just one unfortunate occasion when I’d made a bad choice about how to end my week. That’s not really Sunday’s fault is it? Perhaps I’m being a bit petulant.

Oh well. I suppose I’ll have to have another crack at a Sunday next week and see how that one goes.