Sundays are Blue

If Mondays are red (thank you again Nicola Morgan), then Sundays too easily turn blue. They should be a bright and glowing golden yellow, but often they fade into a steely grey blue, a pale blue touched with winter frost. A blue where the ominous shadow of Monday has crept in. A blue that says - today is Sunday, it is meant to be a special day, bright like yellow curtains with sun behind them, ane yet it isn't. All those traditional rhymes tell you how special Sundays are - 'the child that is born on the Sabbath day is bonny and blithe and good and gay'. Sundays in the religious past may have been a distinct grey colour - grey like an HB pencil. Or, in another tradition, rich with purple and crimson.
But Sundays are touched with tension and expectation and they change colour easily. You need to work hard to keep them yellow. By early evening on an autumn Sunday, the yellow should have turned to a warm amber, the contented colour of a warm fire, tinged with the chestnut brown of polished wood. But when Sunday looks too much like any other day, and the shadow of the week appears, Sunday is a fragmented mosaic made up of sharp shards of blue, grey and frosted white.