Sunday

Like the proverbial rabbit in the headlights, I'm ready to go,
I'm suited and booted but as the reluctant bride, I can't cross the threshold.
Some invisible force draws me back to the belly of the domain.
The kettle, the facebook, the twitter hold me in their grip of distractive indecision.
Why can't I just leave like a parachutist, sky - diver to their destiny?
What really holds me here?
Can it be as simple as fear?
If that is the case, then I must be entombed in the stuff.
It's oily, rubber coat barnacled on to my body.
Every Sunday the same, I greet it with good intentions but however it was made, Sabboth for man or man Sabboth, I cannot get rid of this dread in the pit of my stomach.
Sunday is the waiting room of death.
We will have spent so many of them hungover, withdrawn in a go slow museum, garden centre, do nothing but think everything type of day.
I suppose that when the call comes we will be ready but Dear God, on this day, your day of all days, please don't let me die of 'thwarted ambition'.