Pleasant Sunday mornings

The concept of weekends has little meaning to me these days. That’s a pity. It’s a great feeling getting to Friday knowing most of the working week is done, and ahead a weekend of sleeping in and fun. Of course Sundays where not so great.

I’m in the shop every day of the week, and even if I wasn’t it wouldn’t be much different. For the most part one day is much like the rest.

Having said that, I enjoy driving into work on Sunday. That may seem like a little thing, and it is, but some context is required to explain.

It’s when I’m in my car driving that I feel most in control of my life. There’s the steering wheel at my fingertips, and accelerator at my foot. I’m enclosed in a space one of the few places in the world that can be called mine. On these chilly mornings driving into the shop it can feel a great comfort to be enveloped in the toasty warmth of the car heater, the road in front of me, the car radio on. If nothing else there is a sense of great familiarity.

The good thing about Sunday mornings is that there is bugger all traffic. Half, at most, of what there is weekdays. And there’s different vibe. I don’t know if it’s me, or out there in the world, but it feels more leisurely, more relaxed and happy. People are sleeping in or heading out for breakfast. The odd character seeks out the nearest church, and otherwise the standard types out walking the dog or shuffling along in their shorts regardless of the temperature.

It was damn cold this morning. The coldest winter’s morning here for 16 years. I got out to the car to find there was ice on the windscreen, and not just a film of it, but ice a good 3-4 mm thick. I sat in the car with the heater going full whack for 5 minutes and trying the wipers every so often until the ice had melted and the glass front and back demisted. Then to the roads.

As so often on the coldest days it was a beautiful morning. The sky was crystal clear and free of cloud. It was a lovely pale blue that I couldn’t help but admire as I drove along. The streets were quiet. I drove my familiar route down lovely, tree-lined streets. Mid winter and there’s not a leaf in sight. The branches turn upwards, absolutely bare, thick boughs curving with smaller and smaller branches like fingers looking to grasp at the blue above. There’s something classically beautiful in the sight that for a moment makes you grateful to be alive.

That’s how I made it in today, down quiet streets keeping company of the music on the radio and my own busy thoughts. How leisurely it was, and how necessary just to release some of the pressure.

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