Sunday Morning

Writing a sonnet a day is like a diary - each item goes in a separate small piece, but over time, looking back, you notice recurrent themes. One of mine is the changes I’ve made, partly out of choice, partly from necessity, in my daily routine. Often these aren’t especially major or significant to anyone else, but for someone who likes a pattern they can come to seem so to me. Sunday morning, for instance. I can’t remember, for instance, why or when it was decided that I should cook Sunday lunch. I have a female friend who resented the assumption that that was her job as one of the most severe patriarchal offences, but I really don’t mind. So long as it’s not pressured by other demands, I’m very happy to treat it as a complex, long-term operation, through whose stages I gradually work. But I do want control of the kitchen, and I like to have radio accompaniment as I work. Two months ago that would have invariably mean Desert Island Discs at 11.15 on Radio 4, followed by Private Passions on Radio 3 at 12.00. As I switched channels I’d frequently pick up the end of Sarah Walker’s Sunday Morning on 3, and been impressed by its quality and tone. Now DID is on holiday, and Laren Laverne’s streetwise sixth former has been replaced by the Reunion and sue McGregor’s schoolmarm, I’ve stayed with Radio 3 all the time, and sampled a lot more of Sarah Walker. She is terrific. Knowledgable, enthusiastic and with a precise feel for language to communicate that, but endlesssly restful. It’s just her for three hours, no need for pyrotechnics or self-congratulation, just work your way gently through the store of treats. I love it.