"In the end, it was the Sunday afternoons he couldn't cope with, and that terrible listlessness that starts to set in about 2:55, when you know you've taken all the baths that you can usefully take that day, that however hard you stare at any given paragraph in the newspaper you will never actually read it, or use the revolutionary new pruning technique it describes, and that as you stare at the clock the hands will move relentlessly on to four o'clock, and you will enter the long dark teatime of the soul."
- Douglas Adams (Life, the Universe, and Everything)


.....except that one would push it ahead by a couple of hours, because after all, one can nap on Sundays after a lovely lunch...

but there's something about 6pm on Sundays, when everything seems so quiet, and everyone is at home recouping from the weekend and realising they have another week to look forward to, to curse at.

When you look out of the window and see nary a person around. And even the blare of the TV that you switch on to make friends with, fails to intrude on the growing silence in your mind. And the lassitude that fills you grows into a deepening stillness, like the deep dankness of a boarded up well.

and one can feel quite, quite...