You did not do any washing on a Sunday – and you’d hang your head in shame if the neighbours were to see anything on the linen line: I was not allowed to go and play with my friends, and then there was always the traditional Sunday roast with Yorkshire pudding (whether or not it was beef).
Nowadays, since retirement, weekdays and weekends blend together in a kind of blur but Sundays stand out as being different.
For one thing, I feel I can have a bit of a lie-in, especially now that we’re not likely to be disturbed by Claude at some unearthly hour – we usually have a roast dinner, a bit later than usual, and everyone sits round the table where – once the wine has taken effect – we might even have a conversation.
It doesn’t matter if there’s washng on the line or neighbours mowing their lawns, although in our village the rules forbid noise before 10 o’clock on Sundays, but there is a general feeling of relaxation everywhere.
Even the cats seem to be influenced by that ‘Sunday feeling’ and after a morning’s play in the garden some have draped themselves on the armchairs to doze.
Ahh – peace, perfect peace.