I Am Your Father

James Proclaims (4)

Don’t be fooled by the title of the post – unless you are my almost-two-year-old daughter, I am not your father. And I’m pretty sure you’re not my daughter because, precocious though she appears to be, she can’t yet read. To the best of my knowledge anyway.

But today is Fathers Day and, as of August 2018, I am a father, so I get to celebrate today. Celebrations appear to largely consist of ‘doing what we always do on a Sunday’. Which is fine. I generally like Sundays.

Obviously there is still, notionally at least, a worldwide pandemic, rendering many celebratory activities largely off the table.

Although my understanding is that the pandemic is basically over. I mean it’s obviously not over, but having made such a colossal mess of everything, the UK government appears to be in the process of sweeping the evidence under the carpet and pretending like nothing ever happened.

So I suppose we could do something to celebrate Fathers Day after all. But I’m still relatively new to all this – it is, after all, only my second Father’s Day and last year I was very much at the ‘rabbit-trapped-in-the-headlights’ stage of my parenting adventure so I can’t recall what, if anything, we did to mark the occasion.

So far today, Little Proclaims and I have enjoyed breakfast together, as is our way on a Sunday morning. Mrs Proclaims joined us this morning, but often on a weekend it is just  the little one and me, while my much-cleverer-than-me wife gets on with studying for her PhD. While eating breakfast we watched a bit of the Disney film ‘Moana’, but, as Little Proclaims currently has the attention span of a lively toddler, we only ever get through twenty-minutes at a time.

After breakfast, I was showered with Father’s Day gifts. They were notionally from my daughter, but I suspect she was aided a little by Mrs Proclaims. It was a good selection, and included things to eat that are bad for you, which is my favourite kind of gift. I did my usual Sunday 4 mile run this morning (as opposed to Tuesdays and Thursdays when I only run 3 miles – I really do go the extra mile on a Sunday), so I’m feeling virtuous and like I probably deserve to eat bad food.

I also got a card, and a really cool Star Wars T-Shirt (to add to my Star Wars T-Shirt collection) as pictured below:

The card (outside)


The card (inside)


My new favourite Star Wars-themed T-Shirt

Sunday Sorrows

James Proclaims (4)

When the Antique Roadshow theme song blasts out of my television I feel sick to my stomach. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against the programme. I don’t actually watch it with any regularity but if I do, it’s because I’m procrastinating in front  of the television rather than doing something more useful. But that’s the point, it’s on at a time when I’m likely to be procrastinating because it’s on on a Sunday evening, and Sunday evenings are generally a time that I feel a bit rubbish.

It’s been a problem for as long as I can remember.

From around 4pm, most weeks, the Sunday melancholy appears.

I’m feeling it now, as I write this.

I’m perturbed by it.

Not because I don’t understand why I’m feeling this way. I do. It’s entirely understandable and natural. I’ve enjoyed having a couple of days of relative downtime and I don’t really want to have to go back to work tomorrow. It’s nothing to do with my job. I’ve had jobs I hate, and jobs I quite like and my current job is one of the most enjoyable I’ve had. But it’s not better than a weekend. Weekends are brilliant, even the weekends when I don’t really do anything (sometimes they’re the best ones…). I’m always sad when the weekend has to end.

What perplexes me slightly is that I can’t be the only person who feels like this on a Sunday evening (and a quick Google search reveals that loads of people feel this way – which possibly renders this post a little redundant really) but the accepted idiomatic expression in general use is “that Monday morning feeling”.

Not “that Sunday afternoon/evening feeling”.

I understand why.  It’s a much better sounding expression and uses alliteration.

And Monday mornings are quite hard.

But for my money, Sunday evenings are much worse.