Every Sunday starts the same here.
I am usually one the last in our house of six adults to wake and rise. I try to limit my lie in as I suffer greatly if I nod back to the arms of Hypnos. So, after a short spell of lying there contemplating the day ahead or reliving parts of the previous dream, I rise, go to the bathroom and then dress for the tasks ahead.
By the time I have found hot coffee and filled a bowl with some generic cereal,the lady of our house, my lovely wife , has already completed a third of her day. She habitually rises at or before six every morning. I know we all have different body clocks and we live within our differing habits and some days it seems like we are just two shifts workers passing on the stairs but we get along.
This Sunday morning, in early September, I am looking from my second hand Ikea sofa out through the greenery of tall bamboos and dense shrubbery on a bright , still warm autumnal landscape. Beyond the low garden wall, the road that runs past is still relatively quiet, as if the weather and the weekend has stolen away the hubris and the chaos of the working week and relocated it all in a caravan park somewhere along the west coast. I will soon be away, on either foot or two wheels to my Sunday solitude, my weekend wanderings taking me to visit friends, to nose around an event or, as usual, to my allotment plot for some easy listening radio and dew damp foot paths.
My dawn chasing partner has the regular carrier bag of kitchen peelings and egg shells for the compost heap and I may well fill a flask full of yet more freshly brewed coffee to keep me relaxed but active.
Sometimes I take the opportunity to get away, leave the town and hit the city,to see what the rest of the world has to offer, but this time I will remain faithful to my little seaside haven, my greenery and my family of random adults.