Sunday, then Monday

I cooked Bolognese in the morning, listening to Norah Jones. It's a Sunday morning kind of thing to do. Sam played his new game. That’s what you do on Sundays. You know, it’s just nice, looking out into the garden, not a care. When you are cutting onions and smashing garlic, I doubt Sam’s eye left that small screen.

I repotted my pot plants at midday listening to David Bowie. The sun was shining by this stage, a winter's sunny day. Hands in the dirt, wipe them on my shirt. “Ground control to Major Tom…” The Rosemary Sam planted as cuttings in pots, which I am hoping will supply the herbs for my Bolognese sauce. And those pesky agaves I acquired when David hi-tailed it up north. Of course, David had never repotted them, they are just like cut flowers to him, disposable and all that, so I have had to repot them twice since I got them. And I don’t even like agaves all that much.

Sunday, half relax, half dread, before you know it we’re into bed, and morning comes and it is “the dread” part. Monday morning. Then, of course, it is not so bad, don’t know why we get that in our heads? Because, it is nice to do as you please and then afterwards to rest.

Mondays come, and then Mondays go, that’s the best thing about Mondays. What more can I say? I work fairly autonomously, so the annoying people don’t get to me so much, even less so since I have been working from home. So, yay, let’s hear it for working from home.