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A great Sunday means Monday morning blues

Growing up, I didn't like Sundays. They were filled with Monday-morning dread and last-minute homework. Otherwise, it was a relaxed day at our house -- the aroma of roasting meat and all the newspapers strewn across the table. I hated that we didn't go to shopping centres like other families, the most exciting thing we did was a brisk walk in the sea air.

Looking back, I appreciate my parents' version of a perfect Sunday, and now I often choose to spend them in a similar fashion.

Memories of begging to watch Where in the World and Glenroe just to prolong bedtime make me smile. Now, Sundays are a whole extra free day to enjoy. I've been making the most of this since returning to full-time employment, and I'm really starting to appreciate this day of rest.

My favourite recent Sundays have been in Skerries, whether with my own family or going to my boyfriend's parents for dinner. I've been lucky to enjoy some of the best Sunday dinners there including roast sirloin and their famous beef Wellington. Like my mam, my boyfriend's dad was a chef and his meals leave me full until Tuesday. My boyfriend's mam makes the best starters and desserts, too.

Usually, the only thing putting a dampener on these days has been the thought of making our way back to town on the last train. So I decided, for the first time since starting my southside job, that I would stay over Sunday night and brave the 33 express bus at 7.30am the following morning.

There was a Kelly dinner involved along with an evening of drinking to send off a friend on his travels.

I was disappointed to bow out and head to bed at a reasonable hour but felt content that I'd stretched the weekend just that bit further.

Sundays might be more fun now, but the shrill of the alarm in my old room at 6.30am was not.

My mam was banging on the wall to ensure I got up on time and I was being ordered to let the dog out to toilet-- it was exactly as I remember Monday mornings.