I Don’t Like Sundays…

“The lesson today is how to die.”

Oh, stop looking at me like that. I’m not being literal. But let me explain why there *are* good reasons.

Lately, this is the part of the week that I try and pretend doesn’t exist – Sunday afternoon/evening. I hate it. From the point I finish work on Friday, it’s squatting there at the end of the weekend, waiting for me. It’s the point that I have to leave South London and come back here to Woodford for the week, return to my own flat. Living in a hotel all week wasn’t this fucking depressing. I leave behind my friends and my family, and suddenly I’m one of the doomed people from The Birth Caul, whose life is work and sleep, then the weekend, then Monday, and work and sleep and work and sleep. It’s not me, the deadened and numb way I get through the week.

I remember when Sunday night used to be a night I quite looked forward to – unwind after the weekend, sit and watch telly with friends. It wasn’t something I was bothered by at all. I’d go to bed relaxed and refreshed and ready for a week of work, rather than this dreadful stretched-out Monday-morning dread of the coming week that lasts all through Sunday night. I don’t like this “living for the weekend” shit, that is a side effect of living two hours away from most of my friends (and don’t think I’ve missed the irony of the fact that I’ve moved away, then promptly started a relationship with someone who lives but a short and easy bus ride from where I used to live).

So, that’s another weekend done, then. Fucking hooray.

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