GOD send Sunday," prayed the ploughmen of old, and most of us would say amen to that. In a world made harder by the very machines that were supposed to make our lives easier, that day of rest known as the Sabbath surely stands like a palm-fringed oasis in the desert of the working week.

Obviously, retirement changes all this. But there is a side-effect. For cessation of labour invariably produces a kind of amnesia regarding the reality of the previous four or five decades. This is why retired people - mostly men - assume you have the same amount of free time as they do.

When women throw in the towel, they either take a part-time job or become surrogate mums for grandchildren. Men who have quit the rat race join committees or write streams of angry letters to newspapers. Indeed, some combine both activities. But until the yokes are removed, my wife and I will continue to observe a number of time-honoured traditions on this blessed seventh day.

After a lie-in, I make a pot of tea, poke my head out of the burrow like Kenneth Grahame's Mole to check on the weather, and then feed the rabbits. No phone calls are made or answered. Sunday morning is the one time of the week when talking into a wedge of plastic is forbidden.

After a pint of tea, I make the breakfast. This consists of an artery-clogging pile of bacon, eggs, sausage, fried bread and tomatoes. Until recently, I did this all by myself. But all of a sudden, I am informed the eggs aren't right. Then it appears the tomatoes are undercooked. And another thing - the bacon should be grilled, not fried.

This is when I throw my spatulas out of the pan. I go all precious, and then it dawns on me why chefs like - sorry, especially Gordon Ramsey - become absurd prima donnas, unable to control themselves, foaming all over the flambe.

My wife says it's because men can't concentrate on more than one thing at a time. It's to do with the lobes in their brains, poor dears. Ah well. Back to cereal.

Tedious Parky should put a sock in it. Permanently

GORDON Ramsey appeared on the Parkinson Show recently. Parky was at his sycophantic best, seizing the opportunity to swear like what real blokes do, and spreading his Yorkshire charm as thick as congealed dripping on burned toast.

Parkinson loves to be blokish in such situations, just as he can appear as a man in touch with his feminine side when talking to woman's woman. Indeed, the only thing about Northern-lad-made-good that doesn't exhibit chameleon tendencies is the expanse of grey that is his tedious, over-blown show.

However, he reached a new low with Hollywood star Susan Sarandon when, just as the credits were about to roll, he blurted out: "Of course, you're 59 now!" Brilliant, Parky. That's just what a woman of a certain age wants to hear.

Then, he triumphantly announced - for Rod Stewart's benefit, no doubt - that he had never, ever changed a nappy. Yeah right, Parky. Happily, it was the comedic talent of Ben Elton who split up the naughty boys. Wondering whether the host was suffering from Tourette's syndrome, he went on to play with them in the manner of a cat in the presence of geriatric mice. And do you know what? None of them twigged. There's a surprise.

Can't workers row any more?

I DON'T know what the world's coming to. You can't even have a good row in the office anymore.

A friend of mine relates how he had an up-and-downer with a female colleague. What started as a gentle request degenerated into a full-blown row. This argument was little more than raised voices - and petered out very quickly.

No hard feelings then? Er, no. For the outraged female member of staff sashayed into the boss's office and demanded that "something is done". First it's smoking, now rows. Where will it end?

In awe of falcon's deadly dance

THE pigeons were spiralling over the Severn, a moving cloud of greys, blues with the odd dash of reddish brown. Suddenly, out of the sun like a diving Messerschmitt came the raptor, scattering the birds.

They all escaped the hawk except for a lone individual, which made the fatal mistake of splitting from the main group. The predator abruptly ended the straggler's solo flight, crash-landing into the willows, killer and soon-to-be-killed locked in a deadly embrace. The peregrine falcon. Who could fail to be in awe of such a deadly ballet?

THEY MUST BE BARKING MAD

A POLICE force has tested its dogs to see whether they are guilty of noise pollution under health and safety guidelines.

Derbyshire police got its dogs barking to make sure that levels met with the Control of Noise at Work Regulations being introduced next April. The force says it will make its findings available to forces across England and Wales so they do not fall foul of regulations. The study centred on two sergeants, two dog trainers, and 20 police officers. It also looked at 34 dogs, of which 21 were German Shepherds, 11 springer spaniels, a labrador and a springer spaniel labrador cross.

Yes, indeed. Those whom the gods would destroy they first make mad. Barking mad, in fact.