Saturday are wild and fun and spin you round until your head pounds but Sunday evenings are the real sacred time; when the spinning stops, the nausea eases and Tess Daly is winking at Bruno Tonioli, you know that all is well in the world.
Deliciously Ella has got it wrong; wellness isn’t kale, or yoga or mung beans, its sitting on the sofa at 8:30 on a Sunday night with a packet of chocolate hobnobs. Sunday is the equaliser, it brings you back from whatever altitude you’ve experienced that week, it doesn’t matter if four days earlier you got married, or jumped out of a plane or quit your job, come Sunday evening nothing will have changed. I am in no doubt that Kate Moss, tired from a full week of sex bombing around London, will, on Sunday evening, without fail, be doing exactly what I’m doing (ie. nothing) and there is a certain level of comfort in knowing that.
When I was a child Sunday nights were a fresh start, when a day felt like a lifetime every week felt like a mini September 1st (minus the new gel pens). Sunday night meant baths; Sunday night meant fluffy towels and pink skin squeaking into fresh pyjamas. It meant cold feet on kitchen tiles and scrambled eggs washed down with a glass of milk. It meant Robot Wars blaring from the TV, one of my eyes darting towards the screen, the other on my spellings for the week. In summer it meant the sun peeking through my curtains, and the smell of BBQs wafting through my window bringing with it distant lawn mowers and laughter. In late November it meant radiator pants and the angry wind determined to delay my Monday morning.
When I got older it meant economics homework, crouched over the coffee table with pins and needles, as I stubbornly refused to work in the solitary of the kitchen. It meant endless supply and demand graphs scrawled with little care or attention. It meant furtive group messages dissecting the weekend’s events, and major conferences on which photo would prove the most like-lucrative profile picture. It meant dread and despair at the prospect of a full five days of trekking up to the bus stop at some ungodly hour.
Now, it means washing up the weekend’s dishes; discarding the forgotten toast and takeaways, putting on the kettle and sitting knees bunched up next to my flatmates. It means catching up on each other’s weekends, and often enough on each other’s current level of liver failure. It means the clammy haziness that follows a 4am-bedtime-induced -nap. It means piling the library books that are overdue next to the door, to be forgotten the next day when you fly past, hair still damp and breakfast bar in hand, with a mere 4 minutes until your lecture starts..
Sunday night dread may well be a thing, but for me Sundays are safe, Sundays are sanctuary. If tomorrow something should stop me in my tracks, or make my stomach plummet to the depths of the earth, I can take comfort in the fact that come Sunday, come Call the Midwife, the babies will be born and I’ve got a chance to start again with a clean slate and freshly washed hair.