Remembering Sunday

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CC Image courtesy of ReeseCLloyd on Flickr‘I’m going to church on Sunday morning.  Join me?’

I can’t tell if Beatrice is joking, but either way…

‘I’ve timetabled a hangover for Sunday morning.  Sorry.’

‘A HANGOVER?’

Last time she checked, I didn’t really drink, and certainly never to the point of being hungover.  But then a few things happened…

I found a drink I like which I can order without getting weird looks from the bar staff.

I drank a couple of them one night and came dangerously close to kissing a guy I’ve liked for a long time.

I had the best night of my time in London so far, in the course of which I discovered I also like rum.

 

A week later, at 3am, in a flat somewhere near Victoria, I discover I also like white wine, though I forget to check which grape.

 

Later that day, I get the train home.  My mother meets me at the station.

‘You look nice!’ I say.  ‘Is the skirt new?  I haven’t seen it before.’  I start to laugh.  ‘Have – have you been to church?’

My mother laughs.  It’s one of our jokes: whenever we’re trying to justify a clothes purchase, we say it will be good for church.  She at least still goes from time to time.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

She raises her eyebrows a fraction – she’s good at that.  ‘You know it’s–?’

‘Remembrance Sunday.  Yes, of course.’

I feel a wave of guilt.  Things start to fall into place: streets oddly quiet in the mid-morning sun, an invitation to church…

 

I enter the kitchen to find my brother and father discussing the morning sermon.  My brother breaks off to say:

‘How was last night?’

‘Yeah, good thanks.’

‘Did you have a few drinks?’

‘Might have had a few drinks.’

It’s a strange role reversal.

I take a seat.  ‘How was church?’

Really strange.

CC Image courtesy of Sherlock77 (James) on Flickr



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