I woke up confused, a little achey, head in a fog and wondering what was going on, it was 5.a.m. and the choice was there to roll over. Of course I had to go the toilet which put ruin to that. Stumbled into the kitchen, let the dog out, make the coffee, sit down with the remote and get ready to stare at the heady mix of the 24 hour news cycle or football. Impeachment and VAR, controversial, inevitable and in some way unsatisfactory and damn its Veterans Day approaching and all the conflicting thoughts and emotions that brings.
Head in hands as I waited for the coffee, I am not going to do it, start the day with all that clutter pushing its way into my head.
Sunday used to be these lazy slow days, they had a feel to them, you moved slowly read the papers got the coffee, made breakfast, take a walk, listen to music, go to church, work in the garden, visit family, loll around until you were ready to sleep again. The structure was defined by the meals, the Sunday Roast, breakfast, dinner. It was a day that time stretched and warped so everything somehow fitted, a slower longer less defined day.
So I stood up and stretched and looked around and decided that I was alone part from the dog and therefore should do something for us, it’s too dark to walk but we can listen to something. Of course it should not be loud rollicking and rolling at this awful hour, so John Martyn’s Sunday’s Child was decided on, it’s quiet and reflective and well has Sunday in the title.
Then I ruined it all by sitting here and writing it all down.