Sunday is lying heavily right now, clutching me like a lead eiderdown. My wife has the feeling too, a weight in the stomach that comes when the weatherman tells us that it's likely to keep snowing all week and it's already dark outside at 4:30 in the afternoon and the cold makes it so going outside seems like facing a horrific gauntlet of existential doom worse than anything Ingmar Bergman dreamed idly about.

Or something like that, at any rate.

I can't put my finger on it exactly, but this episode of the eternal Sunday blahs seems, I don't know, bigger than normal somehow.

Why exactly is it, do you suppose, that Sunday evenings always present the long, dark tea-time of the soul? Is it because the eternal promise and potential of the weekend gives way to the sad realization that your time to shine has come and gone - again - with nothing to show for it? Is it because you're about to return to the sad dolor that is the workaday world?

Or is it just something innate in Sundays?

You tell me.