Sunday 9th June 2024 in 2024

Sunday. No blaring alarm this morning; just the faint grumble of Mrs. Higgins’s vacuum cleaner from downstairs filtering through the floorboards. A reminder of how old this building is. (My flat is in a converted Victorian terrace on a quiet street in Islington. I don’t own it. I rent.).

The first hour of every Sunday is pure indulgence. No emails, no spreadsheets, just the luxury of lying in bed, watching the last of the climate change documentary. It left a knot of worry in my stomach.

Showered, I headed out to meet Michael for breakfast. He lives two doors down, in a building full of eccentrics. Sure enough, as I stepped out onto the street, I saw his flamboyant figure a few doors down. At breakfast, we dissected this week’s financial news with a mix of amusement and concern. Beneath the goofy exterior, he’s an astute analyst.

Post-breakfast, the Columbia Road Flower Market was a riot of colour. We spent a good hour browsing stalls, chatting with vendors, and filling our arms with house plants and flowers. Michael went for the outrageous option, while I settled for a small pot of lavender (calming, I need it apparently).

Back at the flat, I tackled one of the books piled on the coffee table (‘The Vegetarian’ by Han Kang). A little escapism. I opened a can of lentil soup for dinner and sat by the window with my new plant (now named Olivia).

The rest of the evening was blissfully low-key. I started watching a film called ‘Atlas’ but heard loud laughter from Susan’s flat upstairs. She must be hosting one of her impromptu gatherings. So I had a shower, did my skincare, and climbed into bed with a glass of wine (where I’m typing this). I’ll have an hour doom scrolling before going to sleep.

Last updated June 09, 2024