Why complain about Sunday’s, kid? You’ve never had it so good.

I hate Sundays, and always have. As a child, I hated them because there was never anything to do, and the day seemed to suck the willingness to live out of a person long before you realised it was happening. Everywhere you looked you found the same exaggerated look of desperation pinned to faces because Sunday, it seemed, proved the only day of the week where the complete absence of fun happened.

I am talking, of course, about days before the Playstation or Xbox or even the Wii.

What’s more is that you would frequently find that mum never had time to preoccupy your dreary day as she normally would because she was painstakingly peeling, chopping, and washing everything needed for the infamous Sunday roast while Dad enjoyed one or two jars at the local working man’s club.

If you were lucky, you caught the weekend run of Tom & Jerry or Roadrunner. After that, you started begging for Monday morning to roll around.

Now, however, I’ve found ways of embracing Sundays - enough to keep me occupied, at least. On these days, I write a whole lot more than I am able in the week, and fulfil my word count. Other times I will simply catch up on novels I’d earmarked to that point and only briefly started.

I still think it’s the worst day of the week, but at least I can tolerate them now.

So the next time I hear a kid complain they have nothing to do on Sundays, I may well have to point out the fact that, in an era where gadgets and gizmos are in complete abundance, and the games console reigns king, that they should count themselves lucky because they’ve never had it so good.  

In my day, I’d tell them, all we had were cartoons that could almost pass for infomercials these days teaching us the perils of why we should never attempt to catch a varmint with a falling anvil or wear rocket propelled skates.

Sundays, I’ll say, have never been so easy.