I love Sundays. I love Sundays so much. I love sleeping in late, and hugging cups of tea to my chest for hours on end and curling up on my couch to read a book - currently the amazing Adam Gopnik's diary of his Parisian life, Paris to the Moon (I could not be more in love with this book, and if you love Paris and creative non fiction then buy it, read it, adore it now, and then email me so we can discuss it, because I've been boring all my friends by talking about it non stop and their faces glaze over and they nod non-commitedly as I gush over his casually brilliant turn of phrase) - and hovering in the kitchen behind my mum as she whisks up something wonderful from that pink kitchenaid of hers. I love that honeyed glaze that rests over everything on a Sunday. I love the way the light crosses through my window, broken by clotted-cream coloured shutters and then rejoined together on the wall in one gloopy, hazy mess. I love a year of Sundays. I even love the smell of Sunday - soap and water and freshly baked bread.
All that and I'm about to go to work! It's not fair. It's really not fair! I want to stay in this bed forever and never leave and not have to go and feign a smile and trudge through a desperate shift that ends at 7 o'clock (7! 7! 7 on a Sunday! That should be illegal). Whenever someone complains about something trivial I always put on a Jeremy Irons voice and say, "Life's not fair, is it? You see I, I shall never be King, and you will never see the light of another day..." But in this case, life really isn't fair. I mean it. Farewell Sunday! I knew thee well...
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