Undeniably it soothes the languid persuasion of sustained contemplation and meditation that today is Sunday, a day traditionally devoted to what might more aptly be called the private adherences of the week, including for example select (perhaps sacerdotal) music and literature (such as Jane Austen). I am foremost engaged in the opening act of breakfast, a superior event which to me is as common and repetitive as matins and vespers once were. Curiously my selection of breakfast and Sunday morning domesticity has altered over time (but only the nature not the substance). The paramount absorption of my immediate environment – an immersion of both topical and temporal singularity – is the view upriver across the meadow.