ALAN WHALLEY'S WORLD

THE modern-day Sunday morning is all bustle, sporting fixtures and supermarket shopping.

But Joe Jones, the Sutton memory man from Irwin Road, looks back to a quieter, more leisurely sabbath in penning this nostalgia-filled little poem about his childhood recollections:

Sunday morning was so serene,

No noisy traffic to sour the scene,

Silence broken only by a rooster's crow,

The plop of a newspaper pushed through the door.

No footsteps betray the workers' parade,

No cries of barrow-boys at their trade,

Church bells ring for those who worship,

For others the country's a regular trip,

With families dressed in their Sunday best,

Out for a stroll was as good as a rest,

No thundering aircraft to drown the ears,

A day to forget all the sweat and tears,

To sit and read the national news,

Or do a crossword, solving clues,

To relax in a rocker, dreaming away,

Of better times to come some day,

No supermarket to break tradition,

The corner-shop was the local mission,

Sport on Sunday is a pleasure to come,

Though not so pleasing for everyone,

Sunday is Sunday, a day commanding respect,

. . . but with time they'll follow the rest.

Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.