*** Blogger won't let my title run: THIS WAS MY WEEKEND. YOURS?
(This is for Ernest & Ishta)
"On the floor were the Sunday papers. I’d bought two broadsheets and a tabloid, so it was a stack you could almost use as a footrest. They’d get me through what remained of the day. Sunday’s the worst day of the week when you’re on your own. All your friends retreat into the security of their coupledom, their roast dinners, their cosy afternoons cuddled up under a blanket with a good old film on the telly. While you’re stuck on your own, making yourself read that article on shoes in the Style section because you don’t have anyone to love you. You could ring your friends up, of course. They’d probably do the decent thing and invite you round for a drink. But you’d both know it was only under sufferance. Come the evening and you’d be expected to leave. Where you are and who you’re with at eight O’clock on a Sunday night is a definition of ‘home.’ Outsiders, even friends you’d welcome with open arms on any other day of the week, are not allowed in.”
The C Words, Mark Mason