Every week it comes around, that Sunday feeling.

The weekend over in the blink of an eye, the one shot at a lye-in, the weekly shopping bought, then a day waking up and grafting around the house, before I know it, it’s gone 11pm and time for kip.

Up early in the morn for work and the routine starts yet again.

When you get into your 50s you are no longer shrugging off the working week as a hassle, with plans for the next weekend and the late nights, you start getting tired, you start to wonder if you’ll ever make it to retirement, you start to wonder if day-to-day things will ever slow down to a leisurely pace?

You creak when you get up, miss an hours kip one night and it’s a real struggle all through the next day.

Of course all this is blown up to even greater proportions when you set off out for work and see the locals smiling and having fun at home all day.
Time becomes your biggest payment, the locals have it in abundance, you have very little.
Their fences are painted, gardens neat, wheelybins washed, grass cut (by the local handyman) who appears every two weeks when there’s a hint of sunshine.

The chatter and laughs waft over the air, looking back on their second foreign holiday they all went on. You get the picture.

Meanwhile muggins here, has the Sunday night feeling as another week of grind, gets larger as it approaches from the distance.

Will I ever get to retire?