It was one of those days when I couldn’t be arsed to go out. Traditionally, Sundays for me were days of despair, back in the long ago when nowhere was open and the highlight of the day was the horror of a traditional Sunday roast. To this day I am not that fond of roast potatoes, as not only do I simply not like them, they carry with them the memory of wasted days of ennui and Songs of Praise.
We live in a more enlightened age now, and here in the city most places are open and the ridiculous spectre of the Sunday licensing hours has long been banished.
However, there will always be a remnant of that dread, which is why I always try to keep myself busy on Sundays to ensure that even the tiniest threat of boredom can never raise its head.
Also, I had the good sense to marry a man who can cook properly, which means that my phobia of the Sunday roast has abated slightly, apart from the roast potatoes which I tend to compare to Mariah Carey since I am constantly baffled by their initial and enduring popularity.
I did a little more painting, but with the darkness creeping in at about three o’clock these days it’s not something I can carry through to the hours of good telly.
I toyed with my new Photoshop for a while, and discovered how to deal with RAW images, after which I resorted to roaming the world on my laptop.
While the Ugly One was out at the shops I got a call from an occasional visitor of mine, a Tunisian Taxi driver whom I met many years ago when he used to ferry me home from Bromptons in Earls Court, and who occasionally took me up the Kensington Passage as an attempt at a scenic route.
He asked me if he could turn up at 8.30 Monday morning for some pre-work rumpy-pumpy, which is a nice enough offer, but not something I wanted to consider on a Sunday afternoon, so I put him off.