Sunday is a special day for me. It is a time for me to enjoy the company of myself and my flat. On Saturday I am often in town, with Andreas or lifeofbell or selidor or (usually) Tim Evans. But Sunday is alone time, for the most part.
I am an early riser — I blame my army brat background for that — so I am usually the only one awake on Sunday mornings. Just me, the flat and Christchurch slowly waking. I will turn on the coffee maker (left as a thank you by a random who stayed with us for a month after Roz and CC befriended her in Nelson) and settle down in a seat in the corner of the kitchen. I will read, and watch the morning light filter through the trees or listen to the rain come down on the roof.
Normally I listen to the radio, tuned to the
Jazz Show on RDU.
Tim Wright (alias Crazy Tim) used to host the Jazz Show when he
flatted with me at Bealey Ave.
He annoyed many long-time listeners because he rarely played
jazz: Boards of Canada, The Orb, and Godspeed You Black Emperor
were staple fare on his show.
He claimed that the official name of the show was
The Random Jazz Show, and it was
his job to provide the Random in the form of his favourite
His greatest moment came one morning when the MP3 he intended to
play was not cued up in time for the start of his show —
leaving dead air.
Panicking slightly, he hit play on the CD player.
She had the hymen that always grew back…
were broadcast as
Tale of Miss Virginia Epitome by Coldcut
was played on a station that moments before was playing
Flick the Little Fire Engine.
Apparently the presenters of the Children's Show, which had just
finished, were rather shocked.
I was laughing loudly in the kitchen of Bealey Ave.
After breakfast I spend time with the flat, doing my laundry, vacuuming, dishes, dusting, cleaning, tidying and sorting. Around midday I walk down Papanui Road to the Fresh Choice supermarket, the best supermarket in Christchurch, and buy my groceries for dinner and the coming week.
Every Sunday evening I cook dinner for all comers.
I am not sure how my Sunday night tradition started.
As with so much of my life at Bealey Ave it seemed to be a natural
progression from what had come before.
I enjoy cooking, but I do not enjoy cooking for just myself.
I suppose I agree with lifeofbell that
food is love.
What makes the tradition more peculiar is I am not one for
throwing parties; I cannot recall ever instigating one.
However, I have served up to twelve people at my dinners, which
is a lot in a small flat.
Normally numbers are far smaller: six is usual.
Tim Evans will bring beer, selidor supply Pimms and
lemonade, Hugh and Geoff will proffer wine and cheese.
We will eat dinner, and settle back and watch
Top Gear or Dr Who.
Today is my last Sunday at Bealey Ave. I will be making pizza, using a dough recipe that Tim Wright acquired from a Canadian friend. The Sun is shining in the kitchen, I have laundry to hang out, and time with Top Gear and friends to look forward to.