Portrait through a window.

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I get lured into wholesomeness of a Sunday.

It's the one day in the week where I always consider changing my lifestyle, or my outlook. I make whimsical mental lists.

- from now on, I will try to listen to more classical music

- I will buy some nice artwork and properly decorate my room

- I will stop eating meat

- I will read one book a week

- I will do a photographic project

- I will find a cool cafe to become a regular at

In Plaza Mayor today there was a Catholic celebration (I'm unsure as to what for) and I curiously observed the nuns and the monks who are almost extraterrestrial to me. I bet they don't have messy rooms, I thought. There is something appealing about such a simple life.

And I think that is something shared globally. Why else would half of Britain fantasise about winning the lottery, buying a cottage in rural Dorset, growing apples, having a vegetable plot, an AGA, a wood burning stove, pulling out choice books from a bookshelf as tall and wide as the living room wall, eating a proper breakfast and sleeping well?

Every Sunday I dream of this. But for now I'll lie on my messy bed, in my empty room next to my neglected Kindle with an unopened beer on my bedside cabinet and the wrappings of a kebab guiltily pushed into the bottom of my bin.

There's always next Sunday, I suppose.