Sunday morning, nine a.m.

I'm certain that many poets, philosophers and erudite writers have said everything that needs to be said ahout Sunday mornings at nine a.m., so I'm not going to add my bit. But there is something about Sunday mornings which encourages lassitude and idleness - a sort of acceptable inertia of the mind, body and, in many cases, the soul.  Sunday morning, the time of the week when we open our eyes at our leisure and know that there is nothing to get up for - nothing urgent anyway. We can wake at our own speed and, after a good, heartfelt sigh, we say to ourselves, "Oh well, I suppose I'd better get up and have a cuppa and get the day started."

Here at the Home for Gay Sailors, that describes matters in a most satisfactory and succinct way, although we DO have to get up early to sign on the roll so that the Powers-That-Be can see if anyone has decided to go home during the night.

I crawled out of my pit at just after six, made myself a nice cuppa, and sat there, with the above-mentioned cuppa and a fag, puffing away and contemplating the day ahead of me - a day full to the brim of not very much. I took my time waking up, of course, and at seven-fifteen, and after another cuppa and another fag, I got myself sorted out and dressed, then went out into the weak, morning sunshine.

I wandered (or should that be meandered?) up to where I had left my pigeon trap the previous evening, packed it all away and then wandered down to my pigeon loft. I changed the water for my thirty-eight birds, put feed out for them, and sat on my disreputable armchair with a burning fag, and just watched the birds feeding. I get a couple of ring-necked doves which come in the door too, but I ignore them - I've got enough to feed without them freeloading.

It's awfully pleasant to sit there, sheep bleating in the distance and the odd grunt from the nearby pigs. The birds feed and then go back to their perches and start fighting for territory, cooing and canoodling in many cases. I've got three pairs sitting on eggs now and they defend their nestboxes vigorously. It is just about on the verge of hypnotic - it is certainly soporific.

After a few minutes of pigeons pecking around my feet, I always begin to feel sleepy and am ready to nod off for my second shot at Sunday Morning Idleness. My advice to anyone who lives a stressful life during the week is to get themselves a pigeon loft.

So, rather than fall asleep there, I pulled myself together, ordered the pigeons to stop fighting - an order which they instantly chose to ignore - and then I wandered back to my little kennel, which I share with Naked. (All enquiries to be sent in a plain brown envelope containing treasury notes, thank you.)

"Oh," said I as I came in. "I see the ould O.C.D. has kicked in  then!" - because he had swept the floor.

He said, "I thought I'd empty the floor while you were out."

"No need for that," replied myself. "There was plenty of room to fill up yet!"

Then I sat down and started to feel sleepy again - it's the Sunday Morning Syndrome, that's what it is. Naked has got O.C.D., I've got S.M.S.

I shoved a tape on the stereo of seventies music, but it did no good - I still felt like going back to Bo-Peep, so I forced myself to get up, get my stuff sorted out and start hitting the keys. This is the result.

So, anyone who feels hard done by, all you need to do is get a  pigeon loft, get Naked to sweep the place out, and pretty soon you'll be like me - feeling idle, full of S.M.S. and contemplating Sunday morninlg, nine a.m.

The Voice In The Wilderness