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Some folks would say this isn’t the day for it—being the Sabbath and all.  Some folks would say, “Fine, fine, the Sabbath comes on Saturday.”  And there are those who would argue—not being religious in anyway at all—that it doesn’t really matter which day it is, but that humans do better if they get a day or two to do their own thing and to get in some quality rest.

Whatever the reasoning here, somehow Sunday winds up being the day that I can no longer put off the inevitable.  I will be working on Monday, and I’d jolly well better be ready for it.  

No alarm clocks on Sunday, though.  So my day begins quiet and peaceful, lying in bed reading the book I got too sleepy to finish the night before.  I review books for one of the local colleges; my latest package contained three of Phillip Pullman’s Sally Lockhart mysteries.   I could wish it had contained book one, but they turned out to be a good read.  They are young adult romances, fashioned after the old penny-dreadfuls.  Not a graphic scene in the lot of them; yet they touch on very real issues at the turn of the previous century (and some still today):  youth gangs, women’s independence, prostitution, drug abuse, murder, mayhem…  Well, I did say they were good books.

When my back tells me that I cannot lie down anymore, I get up, let the dogs out, and go around the corner to look at my fledgling garden.  We’ve had a couple of chilly days to follow up the four or five days of warm sunny weather enjoyed locally in early March, so I was a little worried about the health of my tiny patch of salad greens.