I hate those Sundays when I just don’t know what to do with myself. It is an overwhelming feeling of not being aligned with the world. The symptoms are malaise, procrastination and panic. The only unifying factor of these days is fear, a sense of dread, that, come bedtime, I am going to utterly regret not having done everything on my list.

At one time, I had to cook breakfast, clean up, help my daughter do homework, do the washing, check my work stuff too and, generally, treat the Sabbath as if it was a work day to ensure that the following week would work the way Sabbaths are meant to – with no panic and a sense of calm.

Where is the sunlit promised land of middle age utopia? Weren’t we told when we were growing up that getting to the end of the rainbow consisted of going to university, getting a reasonably well paid job, bringing up a family that don’t resemble the Adams Family and that paying attention to your retirement fund would result in, well, sunlit uplands?

Who moved Generation X’s pot of gold?

I spend Sundays, instead, fretting about whether I am doing well enough at my corporate job (those chomping sounds behind my back are REAL), reading Harvard Review and McKinsey articles so I can hit the ground running on Monday and working out whether a side hustle will actually be the fork in the road that leads me to ‘being my own boss’ rather than dancing to another’s tune.

The only tune I want to dance to on Sundays is Grease as a reminder of when life as a rebellious teenager was so much easier. That isn’t, obviously, an option because of demography and the reality of having a mortgage to pay and a daughter who can’t decide whether she wants to do a Masters degree or not.

Is it any wonder that Midlife is a place of huge uncertainty and confusion!