I never did homework on Friday evening. I would settle down for uninterrupted hours of reading whatever book I was buried in at the time, nibbling a Mars bar or a peanut butter and guava jelly sandwich made with hardough bread. The beginning of the weekend was just too wonderful to be wasted doing homework.
Saturday also had its collection of other activities…playing interminable games of Risk, a visit to Readers’ Book Store, involuntarily helping to hang out baskets of wet laundry on the backyard clothes line, watching television and yes, more reading. Why would you waste a good good Saturday doing homework?
Sunday morning was a lazy time. Maybe sleeping late. Or a great breakfast if Daddy decided to cook whatever else and his johhny cakes. Or a trip out to Naggo Head, before the sea cut that channel separating the road from the long stretch of beach, with the obligatory fish and bammy to round off the morning, before we dozed on the drive back into Kingston, damp and with sandy feet.
Sometime around 4 or 5 o’clock, I could no longer ignore that the next day was Monday, there would be school and I hadn’t yet done my homework. I would often have done the more interesting homework during the week and would be left with the slog work like math. But even if I had something interesting to do, the pressure of a last minute deadline was bound to cause anxiety. Especially if I wanted to finish in time to watch Sunday night television, such as Tom Jones’ or Englebert Humperdinck’s variety shows or The Forsyte Saga or War and Peace.
That perennial homework anxiety, lasting for many years, has forever coloured my Sundays and has contributed to my strong dislike of Sunday evenings.