Sunday energy causes ripples in the Matrix.

Tis strange to find myself not hungover on a Sunday, strange and a little smug making. The paramour is off playing golf with some chaps-one of whom cannot keep score, so I am footloose and fancy free.
So, open to ridiculous suggestions it seems.
I have spoken with French gay this very morning and he sounds most wretched. I have taken quite a good deal of pleasure from his fetid state- and although I'm sure Die Hard and some overly salty popcorn is but a poor subsitute to the cracking good fun he had last night, the not feeling like a troup of Bavarian hog throwers are camping out on my tongue is rather spiffing.
But now my glee at feeling sprightly has taken a dark turn, Claire, my sparing partner and voice of my inner conscience has called and asked, nay, demanded, that I join her on a Bushy Park style run about.
No amount of feeble, 'but the Coen brothers...' dints the undintable Claire, and so with heavy heart I find I must go pull on some running gear and take my hiney off to the park.
The plan is thus, lap of two pitches, then down to the bandstand and sprint up that horrible hill to the children's playground. Repeat until someone vomits, or begins to falter, or- as I prefer- fomits, or valters.
The very worst part is, that although I am complaining-I am my mother's daughter-I'm secretly pleased.
What in the name of marmalade is that about?