Sundays

Sunday mornings are my favourite time of the week. It's all pajamas and newspapers, coffee and ABC for Kids. It's weekly horoscopes, some writing, some inspiration.

Some of my most treasured memories come from Sunday mornings. The week's ups and downs are reconcilled and the week ahead, a whole 24 hours from now.

I just finished working on a handbook for an aged care centre and one of the sentences is:

'The practice of this facility is for all residents to be fully dressed each day unless they are to remain in bed for any specific reason.'

Sunday mornings would never be the same for Husky Nutmeg.

Here's news. I’m a Nana now. It appears, the kids have decided I’ve done a good enough job with their cat (only lost him twice) and so have decided it is now safe to have children.

Being a Nana at 38 means I’ll get to be a Goovy Granny with sneakers and have all the perks of Nanahood without the arthritis. From now on, I’ll be able to make good scones. It’s an automatic thing you know.

I can wear crocheted shawls if I want. I can collect and hoard bottles and jars. Yeah okay. At least now I’ll have an excuse to do those things.

But pity help the little beggar who tries to mess with my Sunday mornings.