There is something in the atmosphere when Sunday rolls around.  I surmise that if you were kidnapped and kept in a cellar you could tell instinctively that it was a Sunday.  However, I don’t wish to test this hypothesis myself.

In fact, a couple of other days of the week have instinctive flavours.  Saturday always has a taste of optimism – though that obviously is the taste of another person.  I don’t like Saturdays.  And Wednesday is a fun day as well.  Midweek temptations and the promise of something wicked. 

As I write this, the wretched Portuguese neighbours are having outdoor drinks.  I am sorely tempted to get the hosepipe, hook it up and let it rip.  If that’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s noisy neighbours after midnight.  Summer is always a nuisance in this regard.  Kids up at 6am, their parents after 1.30am.  I wonder if the Gentlemen from Buffy had the right idea with stealing voices.

As you can probably tell, I am bored witless.  I cannot bring myself to retire for the evening even though there’s considerable strain on my eyelids.  Ah, who cares?