Memories: Praying for Sunday

[anotherbanana]

This memory comes from a few years ago when weekly strikes of one day seemed the norm. But we are at that time of year again.

Hatred of Sundays contradicted

Normally I hate Sundays with a passion but not this year.

Sunday round here is usually like the grave, depressing, still, silent. Apart from the hunters’ guns which crack occasionally somewhere in the distance or too close.

Even cars seem not to move, as if some Higher Power flattened their batteries by divine Prote- or Catho- laying on of hands, for 24 hours. The only real sound is the neighbour going down to the village to fetch bread on his trial bike which he never uses at any other time.

And if you go out you almost feel you're breaking some unwritten Shabbat law about doing stuff on a Sunday. People seem to look you a bit oddly, a cold judgemental stare.

What people do with the day is unclear. No one seems to go out, garden, do anything, though occasionally odd strolling groups can be spotted round the lake or wandering gently along the nature paths, rather like those flocks of fat geese that crash land here for a few days on the way somewhere else and stumble round the fields feeding and flapping their wings, just being social, catching up with the feathery news.

My theory is that the locals get up late, eat lunch, then snooze all afternoon, get up, eat, watch the film on TV then go to bed. Without speaking.

But this year is definitely different. I positively prayed for Sunday, couldn't wait for the silence to fall. Which is partly the fault of the strikers (it doesn’t matter which as someone is always on strike here!) and partly the fault of the calendar as the day, the great day fell on a Friday, thus between the strike day, Thursday, and Saturday. No, not the first day of Spring, welcome though it was, but another much more significant day, always marked in the community as a day of rictual and effort and noise.

It was, of course, as everyone knows, Grasscut Day, that great annual rictual of the First Cut, when every mower for miles around is dragged out, kicked, fuelled and started, hopefully. Then the man of the house pushes it round every inch of the green sward, smoking, protesting, striking stones, killing any live creature in its way.

And woebetide any mower that fails to start for it is sworn at, kicked again, disassembled, and more often than not, replaced by the latest FI lookalike. All that sir needs is a helmet.

And sir, rolls of flat wobbling from winter indulgence when the teashirt shrunk by at least one size, jeans too low and unbuttoned, hunter's boots shiny clean, sir waddles round getting sweatier and sweatier, swearing because the grassbox clogs up, sticks his hand in to clear it and collects a dry dog turd.

Madame usually bends herself over a flowerbed and pfaffs around, her even larger derrière stuck up in the air, revealing the top of a string, and sickly pink, mottled, winter flesh.

But this year, the fest lasted not one day, which is quite acceptable, but three; on the first day, the strikers (plus skivers) cut their grass, on the second, the 35 hour weekers and the laid off and finally, on Saturday, those who really work a full week, which means workers in the private sector or those who work for themselves.

Which meant three days of a minimum of eight mowers at a time, all day, even unto dusk, shattering the peace, stinking out the place, in a cacophony of a Briggs and Stratton symphony.

Unfortunately, this hell coincided with two other days of note; Brushcutter Day and Chopitalldown Day, each with their stinking high pitched motors, competing to add a new section to the mower orchestra.

We, the dogs, and I, took refuge at the beach, with a substantial picnic. And prayed for Sunday.

[Lori]

Loved it !

You have a way with words.  You should come over here and stay for a few months.  I imagine you could write some very interesting words about life round here.  It is amazing how different it is here to what it was like down South.

Yesterday was incredible here.  It was 17 degrees and sunny (a very rare moment), so everyone and his cousins were outside (few masks worn).  Who could blame them really, the being out part, not the mask part.  It has been nothing but rain and misery here since last September.

The park across the street was packed full of people.  Old men playing boule (no masks), a collective of 20 somethings hanging out (no masks, no distancing), teenagers packing the skate board section, a slew of kids running all over the grassy areas - which are always littered with dog poop.  Sidewalks packed with strollers and walking canes.  It was a sight !

I do remember the mower and power tools down South.  For me really, the biggest gripe was the tractors before dawn, the massive camping cars running people off the roads and the endless bicycles.