I wish I was allowed to just stay home and study. No school commitments, no blasted tip-toeing about, no just sitting there doing something bloody useless.

Let me have my life back, please, so I can make proper use of it.

Ach. On to other things.

Imagine, if you will, a house. A house with white-washed walls, with mismatched furniture (but a very handsome dining table), with every available surface cluttered with brick-and-brack : a memento from the late ex-president, photographs of all but one, baking tins, feathered balls, terracotta teapots, books on everything from Mao to corn, newspapers, and a hundred little pieces waiting to be put into place.

Imagine, if you will, all the windows opened as far as they will go. Beyond them are clothes, bright, clinging to their bamboo poles. Beyond that, an acid-green wire fence bent and beaten. Beyond that, a field, with trees twisted and gnarled reaching for the clouds, with a clump of bamboo in a corner, leaves a-dancing in the sharp wind.

Imagine, if you will, sitting on the back veranda, with the hose at your side like the faithful canine, the battered washing machine at your elbow, grumbling with it's load. You're balanced - precariously - on the weathered railing, toes gripping the bars, watching the wind slap at the wet clothes, while the chimes tinkle above your head.

Imagine, if you will, a bundle of black and white just barely squeezing under the fence, then leaping out into the open space. His body responds naturally to the ground beneath his paws, and he runs, with a grace and economy you can only admire, as the tags "fat" and "lazy" melt away along with the sound of his collars bell.

Imagine, if you will, the unmistakable scent of spice in your head, coming from the simmering pot on the stove in the kitchen just behind you. You hear your mother doing mother-like things - her nagging to get down from there before you break your back just washes over you like a warm wave, a reminder of her comfortable presence. Your father is tinkering with yet another antique - is that the 'ping!' of the typewriter you hear?

Imagine, if you will, the sun warm on your legs, while flies go bz-bz-bz around, and you slap at your skin with practiced boredom. Now and then you squash one, your blood red on your palm, and you squash too your glee and mumble a prayer for the mozzie's soul.

Imagine, if you will.

And that sums up why I love Sundays.