This is Sunday.
Weekends are a funny beast. They can be relaxing, where you just laze around. Or they can be frantically busy, where you take care of all the housework you put off during the week. This weekend, for me, is the latter. With lots of housework to complete, plus catch up stuff from work. It is fitting that today is so nice outside, as I can observe it through the glass in envy.
Yes, this is not a weekend for the weary. With letters to write, spreadsheets to fill out and at some point I need to make a menu for the week, I sit here writing this only slightly wallowing in self pity at my perceived wasting of a glorious day. Equally struggling to comprehend how those who have young kids manage to fit everything into their day.
In any respect, be it a relaxing or work weekend, Sunday mornings are mine. My Sunday morning ritual is not to be disturbed. It doesn’t matter where on the planet I am. As an early riser I’m up at dawn, much to my partners delight I’m sure. Throw on my housecoat and bound (or quietly step) down the stairs to my refuge, the kitchen. For the next 45min, this room is all mine. Now the variations of what happens next are dependent on my mood. There is a coffee being made, preferably a fresh ground drip. There is some cereal in a bowl, or maybe porridge. I get to have a bit of morning Jazz music, and sit down to relax and catch up on the news and blogs I follow.
Invariable I also start to make something. This morning, I’m using some flour I bought during a recent trip to Anglesey Abbey (@AngleseyAbbeyNT), for a simple farmhouse loaf and a few buns for dinner.
This is Sunday. This my Sunday morning ritual. Its my time, and I’m not giving it up.