Sunday evening blues

There is something about the dag end of Sunday that often gets to me, possibly the sum total of the dag ends of the seven previous days. Plus I got very little writing done this week.
Perhaps it's guilt, because I'm letting the nation down by barely acknowledging the ...(what sort of football is it they're getting all excited about for the next two weeks?)
In fact it's been a great weekend: I mowed the lawn. And what this lawn lacked in area it made up in height and density. For a start I kept hitting treetrunks and not being able to proceed in a forward direction, but then I discovered the art of raising the front of the damn thing and dropping it down on top of the small trees that were starting to claim squatters rights here. I even mowed the hedge, and the patio. Violence was done. Shades of the lawnmower man.

And my daughter has swanned off to Orcland to be a star at the Oz Psych Assoc and lent me her cute little car to drive for the fortnight, while her bro has moved to Wembly.

Now, what sort of suburb calls itself Wembly. I think it might be psychological state: Ooh, I'm feeling very wembly at the moment. Or that wasn't very wembly of you darling. Maybe.