Sunday, March 15, 2009

birdsong

Something evocative about Sundays. The mild mornings, the stillness, the birdsong scattered among the trees, trees only budding still, no leaves. The rustle of newspapers and the slurping of tea, or coffee, the munching of bacon butties. Crunchy toast straight from the toaster, no butter, three rashers, brown sauce. The front room was dusty, dirty even, the television old but carried cable all the same, the dogs would settle on the windowsill and never move. Early morning walks were all part of the routine. Something about the way Sundays feel, a clothing around the mind almost, something peculiar.

The first suggestion is, "something spiritual". But I would make a point of rushing to the radio to avoid even the first opening bars of whichever hymn was about to be released. The kitchen would fill with The Archers or Just A Minute or Hold Your Plums. My mum and me would be the only ones awake. My mum would choose the News of the World, I would try anything else but; even today it is a broadsheet, and always the rush to the restaurant review. Some quirk of a ritual remaining still.

The feeling, perhaps, most over-arching is awkwardness. An urge to leave the house and walk, walk without a destination, or purpose. As once was always done. A necessity. But all situations flow and alter so fluidly, that the freedom to walk for hours has to be tempered by the inability to leave people snoozing in my bed, as is currently happening now, my routine unchanged. As always happens on a day like this, the great freedom of the 'pause button' tendency. Which should be praised even in the absence of an 'amen'.