Saturday has historically been my favourite day of the week, for perhaps obvious reasons. I’ve always thought of it as my one true “day off,” in that it’s the only day on which I can both indulge in a lie and go to bed late. Rock ’n‘ roll! Sounds a bit studenty, maybe, but there you go.
But in recent years I’ve grown fonder of my lazy Sundays.
That sinking “I’ve got to go back to work tomorrow” feeling (which has long replaced the age-old “I’ve got to go back to school tomorrow” utter dread which used to attack the tummy usually around the time Bullseye finished) aside, Sundays deliver simple joys. Lazy breakfasts, Elaine Paige and Paul O’Grady on Radio 2, reading, clearing out long-uncharted cupboards, cooking the Sunday dinner, indulging in a nice glass of red with said dinner.
This weekend I have had a good clearout of my bedroom wardrobes. There are few activities more cathartic getting rid of stuff. A load more of my ancient clothes are charity shop-bound. I tried a few outfits on which I bought when I was a young waif of a thing – some looked as though they were made for two-year-olds when stretched over my enlarged frame! It was really rather alarming.
