Sunday morning? For a very long time, I’ve been promising my significant other that I will not chip away at Sundays. I’m yet to accomplish this consistently. ‘Occupied individuals are cheerful individuals’ is a mantra my private academy headteacher ingrained in me as a 10-year-old. Numerous weeks I’m as yet up right on time and off to an event date.
Also, on days off? I awaken at 7am and drink some tea in my robe. By 8am we’ve shown up at our nearby church in Barnes, St Mary’s. It’s a brilliant structure, 1,000 years of age. As I venture out 45 minutes after the fact, and talk to the vicar, I can imagine I’m in a Jane Austen film.
Sunday lunch? My unique dish is beans on toast; I’ve raised my game by adding a layer of Marmite. We’re pescatarians, so a Sunday broil doesn’t get our juices streaming. The ideal supper would be eaten on the couch: fish fingers and prepared beans with a glass of shining water on my lap plate, while watching Bargain Hunt on TV.
A Sunday sound? The house telephone ringing, or it used to be. Loved ones used to phone on a Sunday, calling the landline. We at this point don’t have one: I deserted it once Nicholas Parsons passed on.
Sundays growing up? I was raised in South Kensington during the 1950s and worked at three distinctive houses of worship each Sunday. I was paid to be in two ensembles, and was a server somewhere else. I’d regularly end up petitioning God for the passing of a more established attendee, realizing a memorial service would procure me five shillings a pop.
Sunday evening? I write in my journal, and compose a rundown for the first part of the day. I don’t drink liquor, there’s no extraordinary snapshot of unwinding. For about 50 years I’ve been perusing my better half Samuel Pepys’ journal. On the off chance that she really wants to nod off, I read to her resoundingly and she’ll be conked out in the blink of an eye. I read a sonnet to myself, and afterward it’s lights out.