I am nothing if not a creature of habit. In many ways this has its advantages. Things follow a fairly structured and preordained path, I generally know what I should be doing, when and how I should be doing it. Routine is comforting, it keeps me occupied and it gives structure to my otherwise feckless and directionless existence. It does however have its disadvantages. Some of these are obvious: that the routine may lull me into a rut from which I cannot escape, or that should someone decided that it’s high time to have me assassinated the strictly regimented framework of my life will make it a laughably easy thing to achieve. The greatest disadvantage I’ve found to it comes more from personal failing, the times where the routine has holes and gaps, places where it is incomplete. When the weekend finally rolls around and these holes are most abundant, it all tends to go to pieces. At no time is this more evident than it is on a Sunday afternoon.
When Sunday finally comes a-calling I tend to lose myself to a deep and abiding sense of fatigue and ennui. My limbs grow heavy and my brain grows dull, like it’s filled with cotton wool and drunk bees. I feel like I’m being dragged downwards and that the only solution is nap, a sly bit of kip. It’s nothing new, it happens without fail every single Sunday afternoon, usually between the hours of 3 and 6 pm (assassins take note.) I try my best to keep my head above the roiling seas of exhaustion, I try to keep myself busy and occupied with odd little things, I try to keep myself pottering about the house, I even try the old British staple of just attempting to drown these feelings in strong, black tea. Naturally my efforts are all in vain and I find myself without fail in a fitful dose either on the sofa or the battered desk chair that is my throne, hoping against hope that the dose will be rejuvenating enough to return to me some semblance of functionality. The regularity and prevalence of this state of affairs has caused me to give it a name, I call it Sunday Syndrome.
My Mum always used to say to me that doing nothing at all is surprisingly tiring. This perhaps is the cause of my affliction, I am after all, not particularly active at the weekends these days. Part of me is inclined to believe that it’s all caused simply be the fact that I let myself slow down. For nearly four years now I have been a denizen of the 9 till 5 slog. Monday to Friday, I work, and I work myself hard. Come the weekend I try to wind-down, relax and recharge, but perhaps I’m like a shark: if I stop, I drown. Without work and things to do perhaps I just shut-down and slip into a weary fugue, awaiting the time when my presence or talents are required: A sleeping sentinel. It could of course just be a case of all the fatigue and exhaustion of a long week finally catching up with me after having been brushed aside, ignored and ploughed through. Regardless of its cause, it’s something I suppose I just have to live with. Now if you excuse me I’m going to go and neck a couple of pints of tea and then fall asleep on the sofa.