Sunday. Sunday, Sunday, oh tranquil ol' Sunday.
The day of rest, so sayeth the wise.
Unless, of course, you've decided - in a moment of skint fiscal madness (and not my own, I hasten to add) - to 'do' a car boot sale.
"Oh yes, it's fun, and we'll make money!" It's not that we ever do make money - or enough to write home about, anyway - but generally we have a laugh.
"Oh okay then. But you have to get me up." (minds out of gutter please).
So ... on Sunday morning I wake up, glare at the cat - who can sleep on, and stumble downstairs for coffee. Finally I phone him. It rings and rings. Eventually:
"Mmmm ... uh ... what time is it?"
"You were supposed to call ME!"
"Oh ... so, uh ...."
I relent and almost laugh. After all, I've had coffee. "I'll pick you up in half an hour, it's a beautiful day."
"Umm ... do you still want to, then?" Unfortunately, I adore going back to bed: especially when I shouldn't. And even more so when I can get up later and watch Formula 1! Yay! W00T!
A few hours later, during a commercial break, I get an email:
Dearest Emu, I should be taken outside and horsewhipped.
If you don't hear from me again, you can have all my equipment,
(maybe you'll get a tenner for it).
I am now going to disappear into the sea with some sad music playing,
(some of my own, of course).
Don't mourn for me, I don't deserve it.
Goodbye cruel world.
Lots of love, M.
Guffawing, I turn off the TV and drive over - thus missing the conclusion of, probably, the best race of the season.
Ain't love strange?
Sebastian Vettel won. At 21, the youngest ever winner of Formula 1.