Sunday Morning

Updated: Mar 12

I hate a wet Sunday. Even more than I hate a dry one. Sundays in general are insufferable; long afternoons and what feels like short evenings. Sundays are almost as bad as bank holidays; I believe the only way to survive them is to have a routine.

Growing up, spending the whole day inside was considered antisocial. Or was it asocial? I can never remember which one. In some respects I believe it’s both. Rather asocial that one can survive twenty-four hours without fresh air. Now that’s just the norm. Today, anything that doesn't revolve around doing nothing is rare. I feel the need to tell everyone on my path the last time I travelled twenty minutes in the opposite direction. Is there anything wrong with that? Every Sunday I work the same shift. Beforehand, I sit in the same seat, sipping the same soya milk latté or something like that, the same stares from strangers. I talk to the same people; they all think I’m some sort of ‘Ernold Same’. Stuck in a routine that I’m terrified of breaking out of. The truth is I wish this was the case. To be organised beyond recollection - not even having to think about where I’m headed next - feels like some kind of pipe dream. Most days I lose the run of myself. I suggest I should visit some other shop. End up going to the same place six days a week. I like to daydream about a future self that eats in a different coffee house every day. Perhaps I would become friendly with more people then. Perhaps they would all be the same, and I’d be looking at them through crooked eyes because they’re slaves to their routine.

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