The Rest Day

Since time immemorial, and probably a bit before then, too, Sunday has been the rest day. A day for sitting around doing absolutely nothing. Unless you’re one of those who cannot manage their time correctly. If you are one of those, Sunday is a frantic day filled with preparing paperwork for Monday, possibly going shopping to buy food for the week ahead, that you will no doubt pass over when returning home in favour of ordering yet another takeout. I have a revelation for you: alternating between collection and delivery doesn’t prevent the workers from judging you. Others still might do their ironing or bake or visit family members or friends or catch up with their spouse or a partner in a way not quite possible during the day. The religious might use the day as a means of reflection, congregating as they do in their Holy House, with other people of like-minded theology; they might speak with others about their own brand of religion, or they may reflect on theology in silence. Yet more, and something far more likely in this binge-drinking party-boat we call the United Kingdom than the religious idea, might spend the greater part of the final day of the weekend to recuperate from their one-too-many drinks the night before. Remember people: two pints of water when you get home; it helps prevent dehydration in the morning, which is the real source of your hurting head and rotting gut. For any other drinks-related mishaps, I can only inform you that you are on your own.

As for I, this humble author, I spend my days doing none of these things. Instead, a Sunday is a day for attempting the most asinine of multitasking that I can muster. I alternate between the latest docudrama on Netflix, while noting down all the historical inaccuracies; either for use in an article that I soon abandon, or as a means of making myself angry for no other reason than it proves that I am still human and capable of emotion. Once I reach a moment where the bile is choking me, I switch over to playing a game or two, before the crushing reality that I am wasting my life and should devote myself to something more productive than playing the same game for the fifth time for an achievement that I failed to get the first four times and know I will abandon trying to get the fifth time. After that, I switch to sports—any sports. On just this particular day I have watched three football matches, part of a cricket match, the final of an indoors bowls game, basketball and an exhibition game of American Football. (As I said to a friend, even in an exhibition contest, Kirk Cousins finds a way to choke.) Once done with that, I returned to the docudrama. The acting is atrocious in this, which in itself is something astounding considering the woeful performances by those in the Roman documentaries. Still, it features Constantinople, the greatest city that ever was, and I cannot pass up watching a show about it. If only there were some good drama à la HBO’s Rome. But that seems far too much to ask; and at any rate, I do not trust anybody other than myself to write it. I will finish my current novel then do so.

I enjoyed myself so much that tomorrow I will do the same.

Published by Lovatt

I write, when I remember. I paint, when I bother.

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