Seventh Day

An overheard comment the other day caused me to pause and considers its implications.

The speaker, a complete stranger, was sat with friends in a local coffee shop within earshot. He was complaining a bit about the demands of modern life and lifestyles . I initially had little sympathy for him as he was really enjoying having a captive audience to whom he could name drop and generally brag about his exploits, gentlemanly or implied not.

I would put him in the thirty to forty age group, one that I used to belong to myself nearly two decades ago.

He did not give me the impression that he had dependants, either a wife or children. I felt sorrow and envy in equal proportions for my groundless assumption. After all, he could be simply the best of husbands and fathers, I was not to know otherwise nor had I any particular interest to find out.

The matter of interest to me was in his rather laboured question to his friends about whether any of them could at all remember the time when sunday was just the most depressing, dull and mind crushingly boring day of the whole week.

In my experience I can appreciate his point of view and especially as the way he phrased it sounded more like a heartfelt lament than a complaint borne of frustration and restlessness.

The sundays of my younger, formative years in the 1960's and 1970's were still firmly rooted in the Sabbath.

In our family there were specific obligations and duties on a sunday.

It would start with getting ready to attend the local church service. My mother and two sisters made up half of the choir and as my father was a Bank manager in the town he had to attend as part of his social standing. That more or less meant that me and my two brothers had to attend because we were too young to be left in the house unsupervised by an adult.

After the service we would be commandered to help serve refreshments in the Parish Hall before the half mile walk back home. Father would have to go to a local club where he was treasurer and a stock take of the beer, wines and spirits always seemed to be necessary.

Mother would, as always, be very well organised having prepped all of the meat and vegetables single handedly the day before or in the early hours so that we could expect a wonderful traditional roast dinner, to be enjoyed as soon as father returned from his Treasurer duties.

After lunch we just helped clear up and wash up, accompanied by radio broadcasts of The Clitheroe Kid or The Navy Lark, before sitting down quietly to read or do our homework.

The day certainly dragged and the afternoon was the worst time. That three to four hours before teatime seemed like an eternity.

There was nothing to do beyond the four boundaries of the house. Sunday Trading Hours were strictly enforced. Television, grainy black and white, was predictably uninteresting. If I tell you that Songs of Praise and getting you school satchel ready for the next day were the highlights of a Sunday then you will get some idea of the tedium we felt.

The age range of children in our family was fairly wide. The excruciatingly slow passage of time was the same for all of us whether babes in arms or teenagers.

Looking back, now, I can fully appreciate the sentiment that the coffee drinker was trying to convey.

Sundays are not now distinguishable from any other day of the week.

There is no real structure around the old disciplines of worship, fellowship in the community, dedicated quality family time, rest and relaxation and indeed we feel compelled to pack our sundays with as many activities as possible.

There are certainly plenty of things to do at any time and in any place, whether paid for or available for no charge.

There may be, deep down in our consciences, a pang of guilt in ignoring the call to prayer of a peal of church bells but then again if you get a good early start on a sunday you can achieve so much more, especially if there is a risk of traffic congestion if everyone has the same idea for an activity, event of destination.

Even if a sunday starts with a well deserved lazy lie-in there may soon be an urge to get up and do something.

Shops, leisure and recreation all beckon for attention and there is no shortage of venues to satisfy the irresistible urge to be active.

I am feeling exhausted just at the thought of the pressures exerted on our bodies and time on a sunday.

I left the Coffee Shop Prophet to his enthralled entourage with a firm intention to try to claim back a good old Sunday at the earliest opportunity.

I have failed today, it has been very busy.

Oh well, there is always next week.