Sundays were crisp white shirts

With an itchy collar

Grey flannel shorts

Sporting pencil-thin creases,

Grey, knee-length socks, with black (newly polished

With Cherry Blossom) shoes

Woe-betide a mismatched lace

Or a scuff mark

Before the start of Sunday school,

No dawdling on the way home

No stopping off at ‘Nando’s’ cafe

On the ‘Terrace’

To slide into a booth with an ice-cream-soda

Whilst the older kids

Got all soppy over ‘It might as well rain until September’

I hoped for Gene Vincent, Buddy Holly

Or Eddie Cochran

Hauled out by my brother

As he thought I cramped his style

I was never able to pull off a quiff

Not with curly hair

A moptop fringe was out of the question

Extensive use of sellotape

Left a rash across the forehead

Thank goodness for Jimi Hendrix.

Swinging out over the beck

On a frayed rope

Whilst dressed in Sunday best

Was a bad idea

It got me an early bath

Then an early night

Without tea…

The Lord's Day preservation Society

(‘The Italian Job’ always comes to mind

When I hear that phrase)

Ensured that Sunday was forever boring

Even the television was off-air

Until five-o-clock

Sunday trading laws

Are still a thing

But not online

Jesus is not a problem for Amazon

(He still sells books)

My mother used to buy them

But never on a Sunday.