Sunday Mornings

…night…

When I moved out of the branch and into backoffice operations for The Bank, a strange thing happened. Prior to that, I was fully plugged in. I was conspicuously on the grid. I could have a phone in one ear, have a teller trying to explain the problem she’s having while her customer keeps interrupting and you could tap me on the shoulder and ask me the day, date and time and I could tell you to within 10 seconds. There were always deadlines: open vault, do ATMs, nightdrop, conference call (depending), open system, open doors, start breaks, midday check batch, start lunches, afternoon ATMs, start afternoon breaks, close doors, balance branch. Boom, boom, boom.

Then I moved out of the branch. I didn’t know what day it was. I didn’t know what the date was. I only knew the time because I’d make extensive use of my cell phone and Outlook alarms or a coworker would call and yell at me to “get on the damned conference call!!” It was heaven.

Then I was no longer with the company. I still had no idea what the day, date or time was.

But the funny thing is, my body clock STILL knows a Sunday when it feels one. Those first moments when your eyes flicker open. The stretch and yawn. The wiping away of eye boogers. The first thought: what time is it? Roll over and reluctantly get out of bed. Scratch (hey, I’m a guy. The scratch is on the Y chromosome. Deal with it). Read hastily scribbled note about dream written at 2:30 AM (more on this another time). Start coffee. Go out to get the newspaper. Walk back in upon realisation that I’m not wearing pants. Make second attempt to get the paper. Get coffee and sit down with the Sunday Funnies.

Nothing like a Sunday morning.