Everything but the kitchen sink

I’ve had a love/hate relationship with Sundays for as long as I can remember. When I was eighteen, I would work weekends while studying during the week. Waking up at six on a Saturday, getting home at five, meeting the boys at half-past seven, staggering back home at four in the morning before waking up at nine for another shift. But when you’re that age, you don’t need sleep. It was only in my twenties that my insomniac thoughts and depressive episodes took away sleep during the midweek working pattern leaving Sunday as a free day for catching up on all that missed sleep. How nice it was to wake up when the clock display showed a pm.