Sunday's an odd day, isn't it? You have a day off, unless you're a priest or a work in Homebase that is, but it's not one of unalloyed joy and carefree jollies, is it? No, there's always the spectre of Monday looming ever larger on the horizon to spoil matters.
I've always hated Sundays. My earliest memories of this day of alleged rest are of recurring nightmares. I used to dream I was having an out-of-body experience in the assembly hall of my school. My...well, spirit, I suppose, would float around for a bit and then shoot up a corner of the rafters and just sit there. At this point I'd be overwhelmed with feelings of anxiety and wake up in a panic. I was five years-old.
Although these nightmares don't sound scary per se (You'd certainly have your work cut out trying to pitch a film treatment of one), I used to dread them. They were relentless in their regularity. Looking back now it's rather sad that a child as young as this should have been beset by nightmares. The upshot of all this is that I developed a phobia about Sunday. Actually, it's Monday that prompts the real fear, but Sunday is his sinister hand-maiden. She pretends to be benign, but would betray you at the drop of a fez.
I thought for years that I had an especial and irrational hatred of Sunday, but talking to most seemingly normal adults, it turns out to be a very common malady. This does rather beg the question what the fcuk are we doing with our lives. If we all find life by turns boring, dreadful and workaday, then what's the point of continuing? We should all resign en bloc an take up tightrope walking, or whatever perverted pastime we feel might afford us some fulfilment.
No comments:
Post a Comment