Aah, the joys of waking up late on a Sunday! No work and worries, just the ultimate revenge against the early-morning rising and rolling of weekdays. Time was when Sundays meant being roused from sleep early by the church bells [we used to live near the town church], and mother was in her usual booming self. It meant the church bells were not the only ones pealing. So naturally, as a good Catholic boy, we had to get up and go to mass with the family, then a hearty lunch and then siesta. It was a quiet life. But then again, everyone grows up and leaves the family home. And nothing more peaceful can come close to Sundays, living alone and in bed at 3 pm, with 16 missed calls from mother. Nothing as placid as the lingering and most trivial of banal facts: the sound of the tick-tocking clock on the night table, the eerie hum of the airconditioning unit, the dark and gloomy room, the scent of night juices. Or maybe, if you are lucky, a boy-stranger like Richard Guebar beside you. Shining-smiling, like it’s still Sunday morning.