Sunday

Nothing ever gets completed or started on a Sunday. Living on the boat with a goldfish and a non-existent cabin partner (Rose and/or Annina) makes it sort of boring. Lacklustre. Particularly when trying to do tasks, like making a cup of tea, there’s no one to shout through the door to.

‘Annina, do you want a cup of tea?’ 

No answer. Must not be in. I’ll boil the kettle anyway because I want a cup of tea. Then I’ll saunter off and have a look outside the boat and then put my shoes on to leave and then half-way down the street to the station I remember that cup of tea. I’d have loved that cup of tea, but maybe I need to be making it for someone else to prove to self the necessity of that cup and if no one answers back in the affirmative through that door, well, that’s just another unfinished task for Sunday.

Seeing the ex-housemates on a sunny sporadically showery Sunday made it all alright. We had a bbq on the terrace and whenever the skies threatened to rain, one of the men folk would wheel the bbq under a cover, and when it stopped (immediately after it started) they’d wheel it back out, and the girlfriends would carry the salad bowl and baps in their arms like a harvest. Either popping under shelter or stepping out in to glorious sunshine, like a farce, or a classic English bbq.