Sunday, Bloody Sunday. I’m not ignorant enough to think that this actually refers to the misery of Sunday evenings – I did study Anglo-Irish history at school, thank you very much – but I prefer these lyrics to I Don’t Like Mondays (Tell Me Why…).
Sunday nights have always been misery inducing. As a youngster it was always an early to bed night. It was always a have-I-done-my-homework? night. Even crumpets for tea whilst watching The Muppets couldn’t stave off the misery. And as an adult the Sunday night misery embodies itself in checking the kids have done their homework (bit late but hey ho), cleaning shoes, making sure uniforms are ready, preparing yourself mentally for work the next day, feeling you should have an early night. And it goes on. Awful.
Sunday night at the end of a two week holiday has to be the worst night ever. EVER.
Even without the shoes to clean and the homework to check and the uniforms to sort out, it’s still bloody miserable. “Why does it have to end?”, I find myself wailing. It’s all gone so quickly and we’ve had such a lovely time. I know I should harness the happy feelings and smile at the lovejy memories but I’m actually just wanting to mope and moan and be a misery guts.
No, I don’t like Mondays but you get through it. You’re in it and you just get on with it. Sunday, Bloody Sunday has that pit of the stomach, do-I-have-to?, bloody miserable anticipation of the Monday to come.
So, thank you Bono for those words. I know they were intended to express your political views and educate on the horrors of the Irish struggles, but they will always be about Sunday nights for me. Bloody Sunday.