Oh jeez, I hate Sundays. Always did. When I was a kid, Sundays were a visit to the grandparents for an oversalted lunch, watching the afternoon football on the tv with my granddad and not understanding any of it (I still don’t), back home for sandwiches and boredom in preparation for school again in the morning.
Now they’re all gone, and I miss them. I miss the joy in granddads voice when Sunderland scored, I miss the cramped cloister of my nans two up two down terraced house with its miniscule, but beautifully kept rear garden. The coal shed. The little extension my grandad built as a kitchen so that they could have an extra room downstairs. Granddads shed, where he would retire to drink tea, read the papers in peace, and make or repair stuff. Nan complaining about the neighbours cat shit in her flower beds, and the steps she took with pepper or a well aimed missile to clear them off. The few Ill-afforded pennies she’d press into my hand as I left.
Yes, I used to dread Sundays, but now, as a parent and grandparent myself, only now do I truly appreciate that time, that place, and those people who made my Sundays “boring”. And I wonder, did I put my kids through that? Does Max, my youngest, now sitting downstairs multitasking with the Xbox and iPad feel the same about Sundays as I once did?
I wonder, given that society and lifestyles have changed so much, is it just a generational thing? Or could it really, still, be a case of “The more things change, the more they stay the same”? For all our sakes, I do hope so.
Happy Sunday, everyone. May you remember it for years to come, for no particular reason.