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Sunday Morning

Not usual programming, but I just found a pleasant little bit of writing I did in draft form on another blog years ago, and I thought it should see the light of (Sun)day. Makes me miss writing in my truer voice.

Sunday morning. First coffees. He gets lattes now too.

He rubs her back and kisses her.

They dress to walk to the museums. Second coffees.

And then walking – following strange streets with low housing – built in 1873 the door says. Through Battersea and across strangely desolate train tracks.

They decide to cut through the park. They stumble upon a sparsely attended fair in one of the meadows just as it starts to rain. The rain picks up and he grabs her hand and pulls her under a tree.

‘You wait here,’ he says, holding her shoulders like she’s a child or a fragile thing.

He leaves and returns with a bottle of water. He lets her drink first and then has his fill. The rain is falling even harder now – it pelts through the protective branches. They seek further shelter under the bumper car canopy. The flashing lights are incongruous and depressing in the weather – and only two drivers elect to patronise the ride – what’s the point in that, she wonders? He unzips his jacket and gathers her up inside. He’s so tall and warm and loving and she rests her cheek on his woollen jumper chest.

Water collects in a dirty puddle close to their feet and the grimy ‘attractions’ of the fair are none the cleaner for the shower.

The rain lets up a little and they move on. Out of the park and across the River Thames. It is low tide. He recalls the scene in Orlando where the river is frozen and the Elizabethans build shops on the ice. She thinks of another scene in Orlando, the dark cloud passing over the nineteenth century, and wonders to imagine that Virginia probably crossed that very bridge.

Entering Chelsea, they pass the grand white houses with their black iron gates. On one of these houses, a blue plaque – so he tells her of the explorer who lived there. He always tells things very well; quotes and names never escape him. Where things begin, words, infinitely interest him.

It starts to rain again and they pass through the Chelsea flower market.

Up up and a little further to South Kensington. There, she picks up a sarnie and they find a bench. The rain has stopped. He spreads his jacket along the bench so that she will keep dry. He watches her eat her sandwich, sometimes kissing the back of her neck, sometimes brushing mayonnaise off her chin. He finds seeds in her suprasternal notch from the cherry tomatoes she sliced the night before. He’s attentive, in love.

The sun is out now and somehow the sky is clear and blue.

He gets her another coffee.

They climb the steps to the V&A and he agrees to look at the ‘Wedding Dresses’ exhibit with her. In the upper level, they get separated, as they usually do in museums. It is always an isolated yet shared experience. She looks through a glass case and he is there on the other side watching her. He waves.

They sit in the courtyard and watch the children paddling in the shallow water.

It is Sunday afternoon.



20 thoughts on “Sunday Morning Leave a comment

  1. I am smack dab back in London with this bit of gorgeous writing! Just one tiny note, this is so intimate and delicate that “suprasternal notch” (although very Ralph Fiennes ala’ English Patient) seems too clinical and slapped me out of the mood for a sec. Still, holy cow!!! :)))

    Liked by 1 person

    • Awww thank you so much – that means a whole lot coming from such a great writer!!! Haha yep, ‘The English Patient’ is the exact reference. It’s reoccurring image in other pieces of the same body of work, so maybe in that context it would make more sense/the reader would be ready for it… but I definitely hear ya. Thank you for reading 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

      • Well now I’m curious for more just to see how this suprasternal notch business plays out. do the cherry tomato seeds sprout and turn her into a tomato vine, then he then has to figure out how to get his love back to human form? Sorry, my fantasy brain never seems to shut off! 😜

        Liked by 1 person

      • Hahaha how in the world did you guess?!?! That’s exactly it!!!! I’ll be honest though, I think B would prefer me in cherry-tomato-vine-form and therefore wouldn’t work too hard to get me back to human…

        Liked by 1 person

      • Oh no! But then he realizes that you have some secret knowledge about the fate of all cherry tomato plants in the world, but you can only deliver that info (and therefore save all the cherry tomato vines) in human form. He has to change you back. He just HAS to!!

        Liked by 1 person

  2. Oh wow… Beautiful wordsmithery, Weekes! I feel like I’m right there – although not in a creepy way, I hasten to add. I especially like the semi-deserted fair in the rain. Oh, and the bit about the V&A, which I would live in if I could! You really should pick up your pen again every once in a while, y’know!😀

    Liked by 1 person

    • Why thank you so much!!! It’s okay, I guess you can be a third wheel on my date, hahaha. Speaking of third wheels, I meant to bring Sinead along to a recent V&A visit, but alas, I forgot her. Mean, Weekes. Ugh, I know, it’s sooooo lovely there… how nice must it be to work there? Meh, probably not as nice as the council in Poowich! Thanks for reading, Helen 🙂


      • Yeah! I can’t believe that the film industry is still churning out movies set in lame places like New York and Paris when beautiful, vibrant Poowich is RIGHT THERE. I’m sure Sinead is ok with staying at home though – she does have all that work to do to improve Beastie-feline relations!

        Liked by 1 person

      • Hahaha they did film part of Bridget Jones 400 (or whatever sequel number they are on now) outside a Sainsbury’s in Poowich a few years ago, and I was like whhhhhhhhy? They probably only had to pay someone like £5 to do so. So true re Sinead… and she seems to be doing really well with them, having survived this long! 🙂


      • Wow! The glamour! As a mere pleb, I can only imagine the soaring feeling of being an actress on-location in Poowich, and filming at the SAINSBURY’S, no less… None of your ASDA rubbish here, folks! 😂

        Liked by 1 person

      • Hahaha I KNOW! Especially controversial since Poowich apparently has the largest Tescos in the world, and this is obviously its claim to fame. The fact that we can see into this glorious Tescos from our office building windows is really one of the main perks of going to work!


      • Oh my word! How do you ever get any work done in such a beautiful and inspiring place? I think the logical next step is to organise Instagram photo walks of the area, so everyone can enjoy it as you do! 😂

        Liked by 1 person

  3. Beautiful writing, Weekes. 🙂 I loved your description of the chipping and grimy, abandoned fair (I can see it!), and of taking shelter from the rain under a tree (the times I remember doing this always stand out as special!). And the little moments of tenderness are heart-meltingly described. 🙂 This sounds like it was a memorable and beautiful day. So much aliveness here!

    Liked by 1 person

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