Sunny Sundays…

October 16, 2011

There was a time, in the 70s, when Sundays were, in the literal meaning of the word, sacrosanct. or as it says here,  ‘regarded as too important or valuable to be interfered with.’  Fortunately, that nice John Major did away with that silly old notion, despite his alleged fondness for old maids pedalling to church.

Now we have people in tracksuits sitting in traffic jams outside Asda, waiting for the chance to dash for bargains and then stand in another queue,  sneering inwardly at the 24-roll packs of toilet paper that the people in front are waiting to spend money that they don’t have on.

As for me, I prefer to sit on my west-facing terrace (OK, miniature balcony of the fourth floor of my treasured 700 square – or is it spare –  feet of Brentford) watching the autumn sun set slowly in front of me, typing these wise words into my laptop, and dreaming dozily of the man who I met once on a Sunday afternoon when the 13-year-old me met a scary, gently swaying Irishman on the empty high street, who asked me solemnly and slowly  if I could find him a slate from the roof of the world, a spring from the bed of the sea, and…well, I forget the third thing. It was 40 years ago…


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