Dominical Recall

I am in two minds about Sundays; in one hand, I love the ascension of the day until about 1pm, but then I dread that long afternoon, where I only seem to cheer up after 6pm. I think this mild trauma might have come from my younger years. “Ha! What doesn’t?” says you… What doesn’t is right. I have tried a few things to keep my mind from spiralling out of control right into the siphon of dark boredom and empty space where time enters a different dimension, at least for the next five hours or so.

A long walk in the local beech forest could do the trick, but everybody seems to have the same idea. Furthermore, I am not of the gregarious type on Sunday, especially after spending the whole week speaking and smiling, running around on my feet all day, those shoes have enough mileage for this week, thank you. On the human side of things, my philanthropy is running on dry and I need to give my zygomatic cheek muscles a rest. Sorry, but that’s the way it is!

Then I discovered that one of Ireland’s National TV and radio treasures, Mr Gay Byrne, was doing a great Jazz program on Lyric Fm, charming digs, wits and humour about everything, with gentle musical illustrations between the jibes and puns, from Aretha Franklin to Billie Holliday, throbbing on the waves her ghostly “Gloomy Sunday”… What? This is not going to work man! What the hell!

Of course, there is a quick and easy way to remedy all this and my cultural background means that I can virtually hide behind the fact that I am expected to drink wine, without feeling any guilt or questioning looks. A bit like a diplomatic immunity if you wish… I must say, it does deliver nicely, but let’s face it… It is not really politically correct to drink wine on Sunday afternoon. Drinking a rake of 25 pints of stouts on Saturday night is, day time wine drinking on Sunday isn’t as much…

The truth is, what keeps the bullfrogs from my mind, is a bit of class, dress up nice, a bit of gentle aftershave, just for yourself, and when 1pm comes, I put my apron on, sharpen my best knives and re-enact the smells and noises of a Sunday Dinner… The absence of family and friends needn’t matter, when you have each other, a dog for commis chef admiring your every moves, an octogenarian Jazz radio entertainer whose gloves are clearly off and of course, a couple of glasses of Sauvignon Blanc, to see you through the afternoon. My mother used to say: “Culture is all you have left, When you have lost everything”…