Sunday, in Kettering. "Not much to do", as Sebastian put it. And not much to say either, apparently. Sunday is the day you really realize what it is to be stranded away from home, on an island made of bricks. Rainy, windy, chilly island. The options on sunday were quite clear: english breakfast or not, going to the pub or not, commiting suicide or not. We were both against suicide because we wanted to live and we knew the curse wouldn't last for ever.
More generally, sundays in Kettering were all about recovering from hangover, meeting in the town center around 3 PM and ask eachother: "what should we do now?"

Sunday, not much happens on sunday
Apart from the elections
Every now and then
Sunday is waiting for a monday
Even if you hate it, it will come

Sunday, sunday, not much to do

Sunday, i'm lazy on a sunday
I go out to smoke
every now and then
Sunday, I get a call from mummy
I listen to her on the phone

Sunday, sunday, coffee in my bed
Sunday, sunday makes me feel so bad

Sunday, i waste another sunday
I listen to music
But not very loud
Sunday, today I dont waste money
Because I don't go out

Sunday, sunday, not much to do