Sunday...

I love Sundays.

I feel it’s important I preface this rambling piece with that. Whether real or imagined, Sundays are (usually) a day of relaxed joy for me, especially in winter. I like to cook, shocker I know. And I try really hard to have only light pottering to do around the house.

There will be laundry to fold, no doubt, but there will also be gravy, and roast potatoes, and maybe something sweet with custard, so I can live with a basket of clean washing to deal with.

Sundays are quiet days, even when I have a houseful to feed, a privilege I know I’m lucky to have while my kids are still around enough to bring their friends home. Away from the dinner table, there isn’t much conversation. Newspapers, old films, the log burner. Only the animals don’t seem to slow down for this sacred day.

Especially the cat.

I’ve talked about my cat before. Daisy. Fourteen years old. Cute as a button, size of a squirrel. Cattitude for days (or shattitude, as my husband calls it, in case you were ever wondering where Rubi Matherson’s glorious vocabulary came from).

Storm Burt hit the UK yesterday. I don’t know about anyone else’s feline overlord, but Daisy has always held an affinity with the weather. Sunbathing in the summer. Fireside coma in winter. Sometimes, the wind gets up her and all we see of her is a tortie blur as she hooligans around the garden.

Sometimes, we wake up to the idyllic scene of her crapping in the vegetable bed, which is what happened this morning. As the rain fell and the wind lashed, Daisy curled one out in full view of not only us, but every neighbour that overlooks that part of our garden. And I know they saw it—those fuckers see everything.

So they definitely saw the dogs charge outside to eat the evidence.

Sunday. It’s a sacred day. I hope you enjoy yours. Incidentally, I have to wonder, which of my characters, past and present, do you think Sundays best?

Much love,

Garrett