A good subject. In my lifetime, nothing has changed as much as the British Sunday. I remember the blank dreariness of Sunday streets in the fifties (though at home there was Sunday roast and Educating Archie).
In 1982, in the early days of the microchip revolution, Sunday was the subject of a New Statesman comp, and I won a few quid with this:
Sunday Morning, 1982
While still he sleeps, her fingertips
Enjoy a swift and crafty run
Above the subtle membrane of
Their Sinclair ZX-81.
But soon he signals he's awake
And drops a raunchy hint or two
That this would be a smashing time
To watch his hired Electric Blue.
Which has to be switched off, of course,
When Kirk returns from Daddy James
(Spoilt as usual) with cassettes
Of Astro-Blast and Glob-Man games.
And as he zaps the aliens,
She wonders what folk did before,
With just each other to absorb
Their thoughts, and zeal for love, and war.
These days, Sunday seems to be the day when kids are dragged round out-of-town shopping centres, bribed by the promise of a Big Mac. Maybe there's a poem of some sort in that.
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