Early Dawning, Sunday morning.
Dry your eyes Sunday Girl.
Learning to feel everything as I feel on Sunday.
My childhood Sundays were blissful. I remember them as calm
days for family and sorting things out before a fresh week. We’d sleep in and
then tidy the house, pausing for coffee and biscuits. The smell of my mum’s
roast would float upstairs as I listened to music and dusted my bookshelf, a
smell I can only describe as warmth. I imagine it’s the exact smell that will
waft at you when the gates of heaven open. We’d sit and eat as a family,
sometimes on the big table with grandparents or my uncle, having roast potatoes
and gravy with a chaser of cake and custard. Lounge around in a food coma revived
only when Dad gets chocolate out. There was no rush, rarely any big events
beyond maybe a walk or a visit somewhere. I just remember them as days at home,
calm and easy just like all the songs say.
It’s a tradition I take care to keep alive in the small way
I can. While I don’t live at home anymore, I still use it as a day to
reconnect, only now it’s with myself. I try to leave it quiet and calm, a day
of rest worship your god which in my case is myself, my soul and my body. I spend
the week looking forward to the beautiful nothingness of it, smiling to myself
in clubs at 3am thinking about the calm that awaits me in a couple hours. There’s
nothing on my back; nowhere to be, no work to be done, just space to sort
things out.
First thing on a Sunday smells like shower steam and rosehip oil. It looks like a pink fluffy fleece and no trousers no matter how chilly
it is. It sounds like Francoise Hardy and George Harrison and David Byrne,
dancing me around my kitchen like two invisible hands guiding my hips.
Surprisingly, I don’t like to sleep in on Sundays. I leave laziness
to Saturdays, rising late before heading out for plans or shopping or whatever.
But Sundays I like to stay busy, feeling the morning as a kind of stretchy, calming
yoga flow moving from gentle task to gentle tasking knowing the outcome is
heavenly.
I think tidying up is my most effective act of self-care.
There’s no facemask or bath bomb in the world that can give you the sense of
relief that a deep clean can. The smell of fresh cleaner, the perseverance, the
pay off as you step back; it's so mindful and cleansing in every aspect. If you
wanted to, you could even see it as a form of aromatherapy as the scent of that
lemon surface cleaner helps to boost your mood and focus. I see it as a time of
easy productivity, a foolproof sense of achievement that comes without any
mental strain. Turn on, tune in, drop out as my mind switches off as France Gall starts to sing in a language I don’t understand. Cleaning weirdly gives me
a sensation of home, few things make me feel so centred and calm than dusting
my bookshelves just like I did every Sunday of my childhood.
When the room smells like anti-bac and the hoover switches off, I hear Dylan croon one more cup of coffee before I do, I grant his request.
Recently coffee has become a Sunday thing or a weekend thing
at least as I hardly drink it at work. But at the weekend, I slave over it. Brewed
as masterfully as my lack of skill allows and topped with some foamy milk, I
sip it while I cook something, despairing that I’m not about to eat a roast. Ruby
Tandoh puts it perfectly when she talks about how we can enjoy an eggs bene or
a great pasta dish or a Maccies or whatever, but we’ll never forget the ‘Yorkshire
puddings that made us.’ On a dream Sunday I’d be eating veg and 2 forms of
potato and some kind of vegetarian fake meat that my mum makes especially for
me, the annoying vegetarian in the family. I’m always having mint sauce with
it, I’m always having extra gravy, I’m always fighting over why I deserve the left-over
stuffing because everyone else had more meat. On a dream Sunday I sip overly
sweet rose and criticise it in chorus with my nana. But coffee will do, I
think about all this which poaching some eggs. The Mamas and Papas summarise it
for me; this is dedicated to the one I love.
By mid-day I want air so I put on the day. I always intend
to go minimal pinpointing some concealer and patting it in with a warm beauty
blender, but I normally always catch myself slicking on a cat-eye. High levels
of effort is my base rate, my casual Sunday outfits morph into full character
informed looks, dressing myself up as one of Warhol’s factory girls might have
dressed if she was nipping out for coffee on a rough Sunday morning. The Velvet
Underground becomes muffled as I pull a black turtle neck over my head and tuck
it in the wide leg jeans I practically live in. I let this take a long time.
Now I work full time, slow vanity has become a luxury, so weekend mornings are
spent mostly in front of a mirror painting on my face while listening to music
or watching some Netflix.
Then I’m out, The Beatles are calling me a rich man in my
headphones. Blessed to live in the centre of a city, the second I open the door
they day hits me, bustling and exciting. I run the errands I need to, weaving around
the crowds, then I take myself somewhere. Sometimes to the gallery, sometimes
round vintage shops, sometimes to a café. Sunday afternoons I can most likely
be found in Idle Hands with an oat cappuccino and an empty plate of pie,
writing a blog post while stopping myself from getting another slice. I sit and
write letters to friends, maybe journal a little then wander back, stopping in
and out of shops trying to stop myself spending money or getting another
photobooth strip from Fred Aldous. By
the time I get home, the town is now quiet as evening rolls in far too early now.
Sunday night sound like Elton singing Rocket Man, interrupted by a washing
machine and food cooking. They smell like palo santo incense. They look like a yoga
mat staying untouched still as laziness takes over my bones. If the Sunday scaries
have taken a strong hold on me, Sunday nights taste like mashed potato, made
with lots of butter and milk like my Grandma always taught me. Sunday nights feel
like warm baths while I sip gin and watch drag race, face masks and fresh
sheets and hot water bottles. In bed I sip chai, try to force myself to journal
but usually surrender to Netflix, distracting myself from the looming work
week. Ideally, before midnight, Sunday nights sound like thunderstorm sounds
and white noise, they feel like sleep till my alarm wakes me for a new week.
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