Sunday mornings are far worse than Mondays for me

I KNOW that for many of you out there, Monday morning is the low point of the week - five full days of wage slavery stretch ahead and (though the following may merely be your correspondent’s false memory syndrome) it is either raining, or the wind blows as cold as death, or a damp fog wraps you in an icy embrace as you set off for the morning commute.

- Peter Mortimer

In this respect I am fortunate; as a writer, my daily commute is across a few feet of carpet, walk out of the bedroom and turn right into my study.

For such a journey, the weather outside is irrelevant. And - I may as well confess it - I do not suffer society’s familiar Monday morning blues.

If you travel the Monday morning rush-hour Metros, there are few smiling faces on view. Does anyone whistle (admittedly a dying habit overall)? My limited experience suggests the contrary, though this could signify the current general sombre mood of the nation.

And at such time in the morning, your correspondent is usually not commuting, but showering and shaving before exiting the house for a brisk one-mile walk, returning to gobble down a crispy bacon sandwich either here in the house or, when feeling lazy, round the corner at La Riviera, my favourite Cullercoats eatery.

Plus which, I confess that for myself, it’s not Monday but Sunday mornings that are the low point.