I hate Sundays.
It should be such a brilliant day of the week. It should be a really lazy day where you can just have a lie in, get the papers in and chill out. Sometimes it is, it really is, but for me it will always be the most melancholy day of the week. But at my back I always hear time's winged chariot drawing near; the imminent arrival of the working week always manages to put a downer on my down time.
I've had a pretty nice day today. I've gone for a run, I've enjoyed eating some roasted vegetables with a fresh baguette, I've read an interview with Jim Jarsmusch, I've watched Zoolander and caught up with Lost.... in a minute I'm planning to head on up to bed and read a bit of my book. These are all nice things to do, but I can never feel quite at ease on a Sunday. I am restless. Work thoughts creep into my head; I start to mentally go through the things that I need to do when I get into the office (usually things I should already have done, and sometimes - like tonight - things that I will need to get done before Monday morning).
To make matters worse, this is also the day when all you lot are at your quietest. Tumbleweeds blow across the blogosphere, and even the most prolix bloggers seem to observe a day of rest. Where are you when I most need diverting from thoughts of the impending week?
Oh Sunday! Such a deceiving friend, such a bitter ally!