Sunday is the day I look forward to all week. The pace is gentler on a Sunday. Even the cats respect the sanctity of the Sunday lie-on and defer the we-want-breakfast mewing until a reasonable hour.
There's Mass at the sweet little Chapel at St. Vincent's and then I pop into the Gem for a fat stack of newspapers before heading home for a leisurely pootle around my kitchen. Lyric FM, a cup of coffee and a few hours of leisurely slicing, peeling and daydreaming. What's the rush? It's Sunday!
The faint sounds of some sporty-thingy-or-other comes from the living room as I lay the table, add the last flourish to the gravy and call everyone to table. I ask Jack whether he would like gravy and his reply is formulaic. 'Lashings!', he declares, in fond remembrance of Jim Malone; a dear friend and fellow Sunday diner before he was called to a banquet of far more celestial fare.
After dinner is cleared; I am the Queen of my own Destiny. Shall I read? Nap with one of the cats? Listen to music? Piddle about on Facebook? Take a stroll outside? Today, I shall continue updating my recipe box with one eye on the clock. Eight o'clock is wine 'o'clock around these parts, partner. wink emoticon
Ah, Sunday. I've missed you all week. See you again next week, dear friend. xx
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