Life It's nearly five years since I've worked on a Sunday. Quiet. Very quiet.

Susanne Vega has actually written a song about Liverpool on a Sunday. Although frankly if you read that you'd think Victor Hugo had set his novel at the Anglican Cathedral not some place in Paris. But the general strangeness which infuses that song does describe what I saw today in the brief breaks I had from work. There is a time at the end of a weekday when everyone has gone home from work and people are yet to re-appear on their night out. Today felt just like that only extended to twenty-four hours. Nothing but the main shops open; shoppers milling around on surprisingly busy street seeming not actually to buying anything as though that was actually illegal. Very few smiles, the end of the weekend already beckoning at two o'clock in the afternoon, the inevitability of Monday too much to bare. Depression permiating the air.

My new working week starts again tomorrow. For some reason I'm smiling -- I'm looking forward to the freetime which surrounds it all.

No comments:

Post a Comment