Sundays have been difficult days since childhood. My father was one of the organists at the church in the small town where I was born. He often had to play at both the morning and the afternoon service. When I was still at Primary school we moved into a terraced house in the same street as that church. Other church goers would walk past, look in to check we were going to attend. These looks could be angry if they didn’t like the way my father had played at the previous service….
Just after 11.00 we would come home to coffee and cake, then sit around until lunch, then sit around again. My brother and I were sometimes excused from the afternoon service. In later years I could escape upstairs to hours of home work for the Gymnasium. Later still the Dutch Reformed branch relaxed its Sunday rules, so families could go for a walk, cycle, or even make trips by car.
I have quite a few half-hearted poems about Sundays in a purple box file, waiting to be tackled. But I won’t be able to do that on a Sunday. Motivational speeches are needed to just get myself to the Sainsbury’s down the road. It’s that “fly-trapped-in-amber” feeling.