I woke up this morning and I just knew it was Sunday. It took about 10 minutes for reality to dawn. But in those 10 minutes I was suddenly, intensely, completely in touch with the awfulness of Sundays when I was growing up. The dullness, the dreariness, the extra-long church services (twice!), the sheer boring length of the day.... worst of all was the compulsory television hour of my joyless boarding school, everyone squashed on hard benches in the assembly hall, watching a flickering black and white tv in the dark. I could still feel ill with hatred at the thought of Captain Pugwash.
I suppose it gave the Sisters some time off (apart from the old killjoy who was in charge to make sure no one enjoyed themselves too much, or, indeed, moved). I wonder what they did while we were imprisoned in the echoing gloom? Danced sedately to old Glenn Miller records? ("You be the male lead, Sr. St John of the Cross - your feet are big enough to be a man's.") Traded holy pictures? ("I'll give you two Saint Bernadettes for that St Maria Goretti!") or sat in corners and gossiped about Reverend Mother? ("She seems awfully keen on talking to that new priest, Father Fiery-Pitts. He's a bit too Vatican II, if you ask me, with that little dog collar and a cricket jersey.")
So, today, being Tuesday, has been wonderful, just wonderful, mostly for not being a Sunday.