In defence of the Sunday (& why I hope its like death)

My unhealthy obsession with the week's dying breath

I hope death is like a Sunday

I’ve no reason to be thinking about death. With a prevailing wind and some sensible choices I’m, I hope, at least 50 years from needing to think about it (60 if the family average is to be believed). But I do think about it from time to time - The Blonde is often critical (rightly so!) of my worries in this area - often directed at our House Cat (2).

But today I’m thinking about death in the sense of a Sunday (I’m writing this on a Friday). Sundays hold protected status in our house - a designated conservation zone (It would really give the WWF something to stick their teeth into!) I have an almost penitentiary approach to the week’s finale - picking over each and every detail of the day to ensure it aligns with my prescribed list of activities and outcomes.

The running order of the day is hardly unique or exciting - it should start with a spread of juice and breakfast items - outside if the sun is there. It might include a walk (In this weeks’ case it will be coffee with a mate), thereafter it is serenity, perhaps a nap (yep!) and some slow cooking.

Nothing remotely revolutionary there - but there is something deeply special to me about Sunday. About a year ago, I stumbled on the below - which is an extract from the wonderful diaries of Michael Palin - his 90s travelogues often part of a Sunday for us. To me, this piece absolutely captures my deep affection for the day;

Sunday, November 13th

I just feel very happy and very content at this moment. Nothing is expected of me today except to be here at home. I am perfectly well aware that around the borders of my life are problems, difficulties, painful decisions, even human tragedies demanding my involvement. I know I cannot live in a continual vacuum of happiness – but a day like today restores energies, tops up batteries, rebuilds whatever faith one has.

Today there is nothing more I want than what I have.

So it begs the question - is the crescendo of that beautiful love song how death should feel? Wanting nothing more than you have? Simply existing? I’m sure it is. The good news, I have another 3,135 Sundays til I find out. Bliss.