Hawkesbury River

As I ate my breakfast this morning, I reflected on two things. First, the Sunday papers are terrible. Second, there was a time when I’d be barely awake on weekends before lunch-time.

On Friday and Saturday nights, I’d go out drinking and dancing with friends, often until 3 or 4 in the morning. Then, I’d come home and sleep until lunch-time. After that, I’d get up, go to a local cafe, where I’d spend an hour or two reading the papers over breakfast.

Twenty years on, I’m usually asleep by 10.00pm, and I’m usually awake by 6.00am, often 5.00am. I’ll usually have cereal for breakfast, though today, as sometimes occurs, I’ll head to my local cafe. Reading the papers doesn’t take nearly as long. They’re half the size they used to be, and there’s not much inside to read that I haven’t already consumed elsewhere. And watching “Insiders” at 9.00am has become part of my weekend routine, rather than later catchup.

These days I’m more likely to see a sunrise than a sunset, as I sometimes have a late afternoon nap. So maybe things haven’t changed that much, except the hours of my weekend sleeping pattern? :)

Sunday Morning Coming Down – Johnny Cash

Well, I woke up Sunday morning
With no way to hold my head that didn’t hurt
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn’t bad
So I had one more for dessert
Then I fumbled in my closet through my clothes
And found my cleanest dirty shirt
Then I washed my face and combed my hair
And stumbled down the stairs to meet the dayI’d smoked my mind the night before
With cigarettes and songs I’d been picking
But I lit my first and watched a small kid
Playing with a can that he was kicking
Then I walked across the street
And caught the Sunday smell of someone’s frying chicken
And Lord, it took me back to something that I’d lost
Somewhere, somehow along the way

On a Sunday morning sidewalk
I’m wishing, Lord, that I was stoned
‘Cause there’s something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone
And there’s nothing short a’ dying
That’s half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleeping city sidewalk
And Sunday morning coming downIn the park I saw a daddy
With a laughing little girl that he was swinging
And I stopped beside a Sunday school
And listened to the songs they were singing
Then I headed down the street
And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringing
And it echoed through the canyons
Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday

On a Sunday morning sidewalk
I’m wishing, Lord, that I was stoned
‘Cause there’s something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone
And there’s nothing short a’ dying
That’s half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleeping city sidewalk
And Sunday morning coming down