Sunday should be the best day of my week. It is my husband's day off, the one day we have the chance to relax and recharge. However, for some reason Sunday's are more often than not dominated by a sense of clouded melancholy, the stubborn Sunday funk. This morning I was gifted a sleep in - didn't get out of bed until after 10 and it was blissful. And yet the day has still shivered under the cloud of the funk, the kids have been by turns unsettled and disobedient, the husband has the lethargy of a workaholic on their sole day off, and I have spent the day with the constant sense that I should be doing something more useful.
In other news, Monaco now has a Princess with my name. Her dress was a GOWN which she wore to perfection, but she looked about as delighted to be hitching herself to the Prince Albert wagon as most people would be served had their last meal on death row. Poor love, she looked utterly miserable, he looked austere and cold, it seemed to have all the hallmarks of monarchic matrimony circa 1550. Wonder how they'll go producing the requisite male issue.
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