Sundays have got to be the most boring days in the whole week. The only consolation is that you don’t have to go to school, but you know you have to go the next day, so the whole of Sunday is laden with doom and the house always smells of some poor carcass being slowly roasted in the oven. I hate Sunday roasts but my mum thinks that if she doesn’t slave over a hot cooker for four hours on a Sunday she’ll get arrested for neglect. Apart from that, she also thinks we’ll get scurvy or rickets. . .
Funnily enough, she’s not all that concerned about salmonella or mad cows. . .
Sundays are also the days that Dad makes his duty phone call, we all get called to the phone to do small talk, I hate it, it’s not because I don’t want to talk to him because I hold a grudge, it’s because there’s not much to say, he asks the same old boring questions and I give him the same old boring answers. The more time that he’s spent away, the less that he knows us and anyway, Andrew is his favourite, they chat for ages about football and other crap.