I love Sundays.
Lie ins, Sunday papers, roast dinners, and best of all, a guaranteed day off.
In my wonderful bar job weekend shifts do not exist. We operate on schooldays only, Monday to Friday, term time only, but occasionally we lose a Saturday off to matinee performances and after show parties. It doesn’t happen very often, really we can’t complain, but of course we do. Spending twelve odd hours of your Saturday in a building without any windows can take its toll, particularly when the patrons are self-congratulating lovies celebrating the end of their latest show.
But Sundays, Sundays are for keeps.
After a particularly long week of self-congratulating lovies and serving an overabundance of Cheeky Vimtos, I was determined to dedicate the Sunday just past entirely to relaxation.
There would be none of the essential business of laundry or tidying or all the other things I had been putting off during the working week. No housekeeping to be taken care of, no messages to be run. As much time as was possible was to be spent curled up under a blanket watching chewing gum for the brain, eating anything that could be prepared in under five minutes and drinking my bodyweight in tea. An absolutely perfect way to pass a day off.
The only thing is, that is exactly how I’ve wanted to spend every day of the week since October.
Winter has been long, and dark and very cold, even the snow hasn’t been able maintain a sense of magic for the more than an hour or two before it turns to slush. The last few months have been, atmospherically speaking, miserable. And no amount of tea, chocolate or rum has been enough to medicate me through all the drizzle.
My body is crying out for some vitamin D.
It needs to be Spring by now. It will be March by the end of the week, and March means Spring. I want daffodils! And Cherry Blossoms! And light wash denim back on the highstreet! I hear through the social media grapevine that there’s been a little stretch in the evenings, but working under a theatre for ten hours a day, that doesn’t make much difference to my emotional health.
We’re all tired of Winter by now. Actually, most of us just seem to be tired full stop.
Even my most sickeningly energetic of friends seem to be enjoying the snooze button a little more than usual. I haven’t seen most of them de-robed of hats, scarves and raincoats since Halloween when the pyjama weather set in. Dancing shoes have been gathering dust under the bed, little black dresses have grown threadbare in the wardrobe, our legs have become permanently woolly under tights and double knit socks.
For most of us, nights out have been traded in for box sets and instant hot chocolate. Everyone seems to be dedicating their leisure time to marathon viewings of Breaking Bad and the American version of The Office. Personally, in the last two days I have rewatched the first two series of Sex and the City in their entirety as well as catching up with Girls, Grey’s Anatomy and approximately eight decade-old episodes of ER. I truly believe that I have become more emotionally attached to the fictional characters of Seattle Grace Hospital than I am to any actual flesh and blood people these days.
But I am ready to crawl out of hibernation. I’m tired of being tired. I am ready to climb out from under the covers and shake off the winter. It’s time to get some spring back in my step.