On Saturday, it was my boyfriend's 30th birthday. We had a picnic in the park, which turned into a settle down in the pub once the (tropical) storms came late afternoon. Pimms, wine and dinner was followed by cake and champagne back home and a couple of gins to round off the (day and) night.
Needless to say, I woke up yesterday feeling dry and crusty. How alcohol drains the body of such moisture is incredible. Litres of water later, we headed out with leftover picnic (for there is so much food) to another park to lay in the sun and enjoy another sunny blue day with nothing to do. On the way, we bought the Sunday papers and this, and only this, was my mission.
It's very rare that I actually get to read the Sunday papers on a Sunday, though yesterday I truly relished it. And I realised what you need to do to be able to finish them: either be my dad who is a professional paper/supplement/magazine reader; or get of your house and lay in a park so there is nothing else to do instead.
When we're at home on the weekends, I enjoy buying them and thinking 'Ah, some couch time with the Sundays'. Inevitably, I end up half way through the magazine before I get involved in soup/roast making, clothes sorting, writing, washing or exercising of some kind. IT'S A SUNDAY!
And yesterday I also realised why the Sundays are called the Sundays. It's got nothing to do with the day and everything to do with the Sunday sensation. It's the day before going back to work with its intellectual and physical grind so the contents are built around the weekend mentality: it's gentle, interesting and a diversion from the usual business of news.
Yesterday I lapped it up, breaking only for a kip under the tree. Now, I am asking myself how I will manage this in the Sundays to come, knowing now what I do. Well, next Sunday I am at my parents' house. That's easy, I'll just do what my dad does. Job done.
And after that? Well, I need to escape my house, so I am going to need a whole lot of sun.