just occurred to me: folorn thoughts on forlorn sundays gone on an actual sunday, 20th August, &c

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Never keen on sundays. Meant visit to grandparents: over-heated room, the races, brief glimpses of breasts in grandfather's "daily star") a newspaper), perpetual horse-race/snooker on black&white tv, followed by "songs of praise"(grandmother's turn)(and she rock back&forth moaning for jesus--perpetual pain, arthritis)

And that was just noon.

Then my mother's car would not start(once grandmother prayed in passenger seat for engine to work) then pointless foray into deadzone enclosed plateau d.i.y shop.


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Yet I look back on all this fondly somehow.

A sort of realism that was not brutal was happening then, in little unspoken bits & pieces.

The uncanny moves in shortly after……

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One day, I'll find a Sunday to be happy to be "in" //



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I wonder if my grandfather ever saw snooker balls in actual colour? Or did he play when younger at the working men's clubs? If in some post-life he finally sees snooker balls in colour, will he recognise them as such? Or as some divine supposition?

Colour snooker balls as evidence of creationism, I am sure someone can work out a theory of that.

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