Sunday: another home alone sort of day, just Didi for company in the morning. He produced a red plastic tumbler from the kitchen cabinet while you were boiling water for coffee and waved it around in your direction, specifying “apple juice”. You gave him the juice and a small bowl of nibble-sized crackers.
Next time you looked down he was in the open doorway facing out to the balcony, comfortably seated on the inch-high bar of greenish granite that forms the threshold. Wearing his bright orange Taichi Panda t-shirt and a little pair of blue-chequered shorts. Hunched busily over the tumbler and bowl on the tiles in front of him.
At lunchtime the pair of you took a stroll under the elevated railway. Sprinklings of rain, thunder rumbling pleasantly. Didi in his John Lewis macintosh.
Where did the day go? You were at your desk most of the time, read some interesting materials, highlighting sentences here and there. But otherwise nothing to show for it. Online Sunday paper sports and politics soaked up part of your limited quota of concentration.
At one point in the day, a ruminative balcony moment, you recalled when Sunday meant sweating out the boozy heroics of the night before. Often feeling remorseful, foolish, physically delicate. An afternoon at the cinema or pool hall. Or lying on the grass in the park watching clouds while your dog tracked scents nearby. Or a hard run at the track or a swim. Sometimes, when a crowd of you got it together, a motorbike ride out to the reservoir then a couple of hours drifting downstream on kids’ inflatable dinghies, beers and g&ts in hand.
That made sense then. This makes sense now.
With wide eyes and a small voice: