On an ideal Sunday I’d wake after nine hours of sleep, to read in bed. Before showering, I’d notice I was 2kg. down from last week. Outside, the garden would have suddenly displayed beautiful blooms despite my pitiful efforts and the dog’s rampaging.
I’d make the late morning church service and while socializing over a cuppa would discover that those who’d previously had medical, work, financial or family problems now reported happy solutions.
Somebody would whisk me off to a café for lunch: fettucine with chicken and bacon, or — since I wanted to lose another 2kg — maybe a Mediterranean stack. Back home somebody else would have tidied and ironed, and brushed dog hair off the suite. Instantly I’d find those items I mislaid weeks ago.
Sitting blissfully getting correspondence up-to-date, I’d not mind a barrage of phone interruptions: one daughter who’d found an excellent job, just what she’d always wanted; another daughter who’d found a husband, just what we all wanted; and many parents complaining of the prolonged piano practices their children had been doing, and how, as their teacher, could I explain that?
And (how wonderful) somebody wanting a dog, preferably loud, impulsive and unrestrainable, and wanting it NOW.
Late afternoon we’d go to a movie with calorie-free Jaffas, followed by a fat-free restaurant dinner. Replete, we’d head home, to hear on the news that a public holiday had been declared for the morrow.