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Notes -
I used to hate Sundays, for reasons similar to those enumerated in High Fidelity:
When we were very small my mum would make us go to Mass, which probably only lasted half an hour and yet seemed to go on for an eternity. Later my sister and I joined an orchestra, for which rehearsals were held every other Sunday morning, which I dreaded. Often when I returned from rehearsal, my mum would invite my granddad over for Sunday dinner, which invariably consisted of mashed potatoes, boiled peas and overcooked roast beef that you would have to spend five minutes gnawing through before you could swallow it (the aforementioned congealing gravy not acting as much of a lubricant), and my granddad wasn't much of a conversationalist even before he lost his hearing. And once he finally went home, I couldn't enjoy the rest of the day because I still had homework to do before the next morning.
Now, however, I like Sundays. I wake up around ten a.m., get a coffee and go for a walk with herself, buy some groceries and do some meal prep for the following week, go to the gym if I need to meet my weekly quota, and still plenty of time left over to unwind.
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