Sunday Bloody Sunday

Hmm, Sundays get on my nerves sometimes. I always think I'm going to be very constructive and creative on Sundays, because Sundays are 'getting-things-done days', but aren't they also meant to be fun days? I've spent quite a while squashing a whole load of washing into the protesting machine – that machine is such a queen, and makes such a scene about the load that I try to goad therein. There's a young man on my sofa, asleep. He lies without motion and has no notion that while he counts sheep, I keep quiet while I sweep the floor around him. He wouldn't be told, and lo and behold, he's now out cold because, of course, he had too much drink in Nottingham's Pink, or so I think.

But I must away and do something with the day, or someone will say that I am wasting my time as the clock doth chime, and while it does seem sublime to sit here making things rhyme, it also seems ridic-erlous to have to go around knicker-less which, if I don't switch on the machine, and get some of them clean, I will surely be. And that might be obscene, or even unclean, albeit unseen.

I might take a drive and, in doing so, will strive to bring this boy alive and get him on his way, so that he can face the day, however grey the day, and keep his throbbing head at bay. He'll thank me in the end, when he's on the mend, and will then lend himself to another pursuit – and a healthier one, to boot.

Now, if only I'd used rhyming couplets, I could have turned this dismal Sunday into a John Donne day. Instead. I'm out of routine and spinning between, just like the machine.