My mother always wore her Sunday best.
We told her on numerous occasions that it was just embarrassing to be seen with her. She strutted down the street in a voluminous flower print sundress and a wide-brimmed straw hat, whatever the weather.
It didn’t matter what day of the week it was, or what occasion. A trip to the zoo on a Tuesday? Sunday best. A trip to the dentist? Sunday best. An appointment with the gynaecologist? Sunday best, with her special knickers thrown in for effect.
Perhaps it was only fitting that we buried her in it.
A shame she was still alive.
Showing posts with label Sunday Best. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sunday Best. Show all posts
Tuesday, 8 May 2012
Sunday Best by Matthew Tomlin
I hate Sundays. The day of rest, except I feel inclined to work. Time never stops, so why should we? I could put on my suit and spend the morning in church, lift the weight off my shoulders. £12.74 an hour. Earning that for a day is three weeks-worth of food, or my car insurance for the month. Bills don’t stop, they edge closer. If I spent a day loitering, lounging in my home, I’d get all guilty. I can have as many days of rest as I like when I’m retired, but not now.
Sunday Best by Meg Burrows
‘Pass the roasts please.’ Paul held out his hand to his son sitting across from him. He was aware of the silence that had filled the fourteen minutes of their dinner so far. The cutlery had been making extra loud clangs on the plates this time and there was only so many times that you can shuffle around salt and pepper.
‘Did you finish at three today?’ Paul cleared his throat, eyeballing his son. Now was the time for him to come clean.
‘No, half four.’ Sam kept his eyes on his food.
‘I thought it was three.’
‘Why ask me if you want a different answer Dad?’ Sam looked up briefly. ‘It was half four. I came back here.’
‘I was here at five and you weren’t back. First time I’ve seen you all today has been this meal.’
Sam reached forward for the ketchup bottle. Shaking it vigorously he opened it, letting the red sauce spill out onto his food.
‘I was out around that time.’
‘What were you doing?’ Paul’s knife and fork hovered over his half eaten roast.
‘Nothing’
‘You sure?’
‘Yep’
‘Sam.’
‘Dad?’
‘What was it?’
‘Was what?’
Paul stared at his son.
‘Ah don’t even go there Dad. I wasn’t doing that.’
‘I just thought –
‘You don’t think, you assume.’
‘Well what do you expect me to think Sam, you say you’re home and then you aren’t, you keep coming in later and later –
‘Just because I want some time to myself doesn’t automatically confirm your fears Dad. I said I wasn’t doing that anymore. So I’m not.’
Sam pushed back his chair, taking his plate to the sink. Paul watched him fill the washing up bowl. He always used too much fairy liquid.
‘Well tell me what you were doing then, if it wasn’t that.’
His son kept his back to him.
‘Sam?’
‘Nothing, its fine.’
‘It’s not fine, if you’re back on that crap again –
Sam paused washing up.
‘What Dad, what?’
‘You can see yourself out of the door that’s what! We’re not going through all of that again I’m telling you now.’
Sam flicked down the knife he was washing up, turning to face his father as it plopped into the water.
‘Are you being serious?’
‘Yes I am Sam, if you’re under my roof, it’s my rules – you promised me and your Mother at the time they’d be no more.’
‘I wasn’t Dad.’
Paul raised his voice.
‘That’s what you used to say all the other times. And then we’d get a phone call in the middle of the night telling us -’
‘I was taking the dog Dad! For a walk!’
Sam turned back to the sink, ringing his hands of soap suds. Paul, clearing his throat, laid his knife down.
‘Righ- ah rig –
‘I don’t do things, you complain, I do things, you complain –make up your mind Dad.’
‘Sam, look I - where are you going now?’ Paul watched as Sam picked up his coat from the back of the chair and walked towards the kitchen door.
‘Out’
‘Sam it’s nearly Nine, I thought we were watching –
‘I’m going out.’ Sam shut the door behind him.
‘Did you finish at three today?’ Paul cleared his throat, eyeballing his son. Now was the time for him to come clean.
‘No, half four.’ Sam kept his eyes on his food.
‘I thought it was three.’
‘Why ask me if you want a different answer Dad?’ Sam looked up briefly. ‘It was half four. I came back here.’
‘I was here at five and you weren’t back. First time I’ve seen you all today has been this meal.’
Sam reached forward for the ketchup bottle. Shaking it vigorously he opened it, letting the red sauce spill out onto his food.
‘I was out around that time.’
‘What were you doing?’ Paul’s knife and fork hovered over his half eaten roast.
‘Nothing’
‘You sure?’
‘Yep’
‘Sam.’
‘Dad?’
‘What was it?’
‘Was what?’
Paul stared at his son.
‘Ah don’t even go there Dad. I wasn’t doing that.’
‘I just thought –
‘You don’t think, you assume.’
‘Well what do you expect me to think Sam, you say you’re home and then you aren’t, you keep coming in later and later –
‘Just because I want some time to myself doesn’t automatically confirm your fears Dad. I said I wasn’t doing that anymore. So I’m not.’
Sam pushed back his chair, taking his plate to the sink. Paul watched him fill the washing up bowl. He always used too much fairy liquid.
‘Well tell me what you were doing then, if it wasn’t that.’
His son kept his back to him.
‘Sam?’
‘Nothing, its fine.’
‘It’s not fine, if you’re back on that crap again –
Sam paused washing up.
‘What Dad, what?’
‘You can see yourself out of the door that’s what! We’re not going through all of that again I’m telling you now.’
Sam flicked down the knife he was washing up, turning to face his father as it plopped into the water.
‘Are you being serious?’
‘Yes I am Sam, if you’re under my roof, it’s my rules – you promised me and your Mother at the time they’d be no more.’
‘I wasn’t Dad.’
Paul raised his voice.
‘That’s what you used to say all the other times. And then we’d get a phone call in the middle of the night telling us -’
‘I was taking the dog Dad! For a walk!’
Sam turned back to the sink, ringing his hands of soap suds. Paul, clearing his throat, laid his knife down.
‘Righ- ah rig –
‘I don’t do things, you complain, I do things, you complain –make up your mind Dad.’
‘Sam, look I - where are you going now?’ Paul watched as Sam picked up his coat from the back of the chair and walked towards the kitchen door.
‘Out’
‘Sam it’s nearly Nine, I thought we were watching –
‘I’m going out.’ Sam shut the door behind him.
Sunday Best by Sam Smith
It was Sunday. I was sat in the park eating an ice-cream when God sat down next to me on the bench with a much tastier ice-cream. It had sprinkles, chocolate sauce and wasn’t dripping, even though it was quite hot. All mine had was a flake, which I had already eaten because that’s what you’re meant to do. God gave me a polite smile and a little nod and bit the frozen treat. I smiled back and wiped some melted ice-cream off my hand with a tissue.
For a while we sat there, enjoying the pleasantly bright morning. As I was crunching the last bit of the waffle cone, God leant back on the bench and turned his head to me.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me something?’ said God.
‘Did you want me to?’
God shrugged a shoulder lazily. ‘I don’t know, maybe? People normally can’t wait to bombard me with questions, I guess I’ve kind of got used to it. What’s on your mind?’
I thought for a second. ‘Umm… Where did you get that ice-cream?’
For a while we sat there, enjoying the pleasantly bright morning. As I was crunching the last bit of the waffle cone, God leant back on the bench and turned his head to me.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me something?’ said God.
‘Did you want me to?’
God shrugged a shoulder lazily. ‘I don’t know, maybe? People normally can’t wait to bombard me with questions, I guess I’ve kind of got used to it. What’s on your mind?’
I thought for a second. ‘Umm… Where did you get that ice-cream?’
Sunday Best by Sara Travis
“Right, so I’ve narrowed it down to these two. ‘Sunday Best’ or ‘Whisper of Snowfall’. I’m thinking we should probably go with ‘Sunday Best’, because I really think it’s just that bit crisper, you know? And plus it’ll go better with those curtains my mum picked out, you remember, those cute ones with the ducklings? But anyway, I thought I’d ask you before I make any concrete decisions, although I really do think we’d be better off with ‘Sunday Best’. What do you think?”
“I dunno. They both look sort of the same, to me.”
“Robert. We talked about this. I thought you said you would try harder to be involved?”
“I am, Diane! But I honestly can’t tell the difference, they both look like identical shades of white.”
“It is NOT white, Robert! It’s egg shell, for god’s sake. And this is the room our unborn child will be sleeping in! Or do you not care about that?”
“What! Of course I care, I only said -”
“Look, you’ve made it pretty clear how you feel about it. I knew it was a mistake asking your opinion, I should’ve just carried on regardless. You’re always like this.”
“Diane, what the fuck? We’re talking about paint, the colour of the paint on the walls. I think these hormones are going to your head ...”
“Oh, that’s right, blame the hormones! It’s not the fact that you’ve been no help whatsoever throughout this entire pregnancy! I haven’t put my feet up ONCE, you’ve barely lifted a finger around the house, and now you tell me you can’t be bothered to choose a shade for the walls of your child’s bedroom. That’s just fucking perfect, that is. My mother was right about you.”
“Diane, seriously, what the fuck have I done?”
“Just don’t talk to me right now, Robert. Your face is really pissing me off ... And I’m definitely going with ‘Sunday Best’, so that’s that. Now fuck off.”
“I dunno. They both look sort of the same, to me.”
“Robert. We talked about this. I thought you said you would try harder to be involved?”
“I am, Diane! But I honestly can’t tell the difference, they both look like identical shades of white.”
“It is NOT white, Robert! It’s egg shell, for god’s sake. And this is the room our unborn child will be sleeping in! Or do you not care about that?”
“What! Of course I care, I only said -”
“Look, you’ve made it pretty clear how you feel about it. I knew it was a mistake asking your opinion, I should’ve just carried on regardless. You’re always like this.”
“Diane, what the fuck? We’re talking about paint, the colour of the paint on the walls. I think these hormones are going to your head ...”
“Oh, that’s right, blame the hormones! It’s not the fact that you’ve been no help whatsoever throughout this entire pregnancy! I haven’t put my feet up ONCE, you’ve barely lifted a finger around the house, and now you tell me you can’t be bothered to choose a shade for the walls of your child’s bedroom. That’s just fucking perfect, that is. My mother was right about you.”
“Diane, seriously, what the fuck have I done?”
“Just don’t talk to me right now, Robert. Your face is really pissing me off ... And I’m definitely going with ‘Sunday Best’, so that’s that. Now fuck off.”
Sunday Best by Lesley Whyte
Every Sunday, Mama would dress us in our Sunday best and take us to the Church. Father would never come with us. He used to rise early, dress and leave before we were awake. He would come home long after supper, dressed in his own Sunday best. Mama always told us that he liked to go to the Church early, to pray in private before mass, but I never saw him there.
Then, when I was fifteen, he woke me early one Sunday. He told me to dress quietly, and then left me without a word. I met him in the hallway, and he took me to a house in Mayfair without saying a word. Inside, there were drinks and cards and women. Oh, the women. Never before had I seen such exquisite creatures.
He never spoke a word to me about it, and I have never gone to mass on a Sunday again.
Then, when I was fifteen, he woke me early one Sunday. He told me to dress quietly, and then left me without a word. I met him in the hallway, and he took me to a house in Mayfair without saying a word. Inside, there were drinks and cards and women. Oh, the women. Never before had I seen such exquisite creatures.
He never spoke a word to me about it, and I have never gone to mass on a Sunday again.
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