Sunday Brunch…


Sunday Brunch.

Yet again I am forced to sit through this farce and enjoy every second of it. I would try not to. I can’t even imagine the consequences and perils I would have to face later on if I let out even a peep about how this ordeal is unnecessary torture that is bestowed upon my by my lovely family.

We all gather for the Sunday Brunch (capital letters are a must) and all butterflies, smiles and sun shines, take our places around the enormous table in our parent’s house.

It was our house at some point when we were all little rascals, running around the long stairs and making our mother mad.

Even though now we were able to get out of this stifling atmosphere of age long tradition and generation of stern eyes looking at us from family portraits, we still are summoned before the high council for the Sunday Brunch every last Sunday of the month.

I tried not coming once. I even managed to get as far as booking a ticket for a Sunday play and getting dressed up for the occasion. No chance. The doorbell was like the swish-swosh of a cane on my back. The memory itself makes me cringe.

Least to say I never tried it again and so here we are. Me and my siblings: two brothers and one sister, all four of us, sitting neatly around the great table waiting patiently for our generous parents to let us breath freely.


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