Walking through the hazy sunlit beauty of today, sundays always make me over sentimental. I look at wooden accented houses and bungalows built in the 60s, with grandparents standing outside laughing gently, the sun shining on the tarmac and cultivated tree suburbia, the empty city streets and the woods basking in sunday’s attention. It makes me so happy, that it makes me sad that it has to end. Like the credits at the end of Birds of a Feather (I realise it’s probably only me who watched this 90s sitcom…and the Likely Lads/Minder/Darling Buds of May – oh yes), with the cine film flickering as the children run away into the distance. It’s sunday, hazy and time running away, moments gone with the sunset. It feels like yesterday that I was running through the fields filled of pea pods by my house, squeezing the green little jackets, looking to the sky and absent mindedly nibbling on the raw pea treasure. Then running off to my bike, circling round for miles, making up stories and monsters. Before learning my spelling in front of The Borrowers and my favourite costume dramas. Today Charlie and I went to a garden centre, planted seeds and basked in sunday’s beautiful rays. So adult. It’s not over yet of course.