A Month of Sundays

Sunday has really upped its game in recent years. Once upon a time the title phrase above was used to indicate an extraordinary length of time or the slimmest of possibilities - so long and dreary were Sundays that a month of nothing but them would appear to take far longer than thirty days, if it ever passed at all. Obviously Sunday wasn't happy with this slur on its good name, and it has done a real 180 turn.

Like some dull and plodding caterpillar, it has re-emerged as an energetic butterfly. It flits away at an alarming speed, and is a day filled with wonder that, while deeply satisfying and welcome, is fleeting and soon gone. I would hazard to guess, calling upon my knowledge of the time-space continuum and quantum physics, that a month of Sundays would in actual fact barely last a week. Heavens, I only got out of bed and it's already nearly lunchtime - does such a mysterious thing ever happen on, say, a Wednesday? I think not.

So, dear readers, enjoy this precious day for in the blink of an eye in will be but a memory, and some much less conscientious days will prevail and plod.