It used to be my favourite day of the week. The day when we would bust out the yellow gloves and do the washing that had been pilling up all week, or the laundry, arduously making trips down to the laundry room with our accumulated change. Sunday’s back then ended in swaying to Sade and goblets of wine.
Now, my Sunday’s go a little something like this; aching bones from an obligatory weekend of riotous drinking, kick boxing and/or partying. Lying on the couch for a couple of hours catching up on PVR, and then making a huge pot of lasagna from scratch, only to end up at 9 pm, all alone with too much food, giving myself little pep talks about faith.