Passions: Sunday Club was born from the need for friendship and food

The day I found hardest as a new singleton was Sunday

The day of rest was very much a happy day of very little when part of a couple - a long lie, a windy walk, the joy of dinner from a slow-cooking pot.

But alone, the day felt more like hard graft as the hours dragged on with nowhere really to go. A walk alone may be a great pleasure but forced into walking in newly single shoes, I even got bored hearing the sound of my own breath. Everything shrank.

The worst was returning home in the dark after an afternoon in the pub with the fellow aimless. Over-watered and usually underfed, there was something so sad on passing the warmly-lit windows of ordinary homes, telly flickering and a sense of rest and contentment emanating through the glass. I headed home into the dark, perhaps with some noodles and free crackers, my wee cat’s face glad to see my return.

The Sunday Club regulars are of all backgrounds, professions and ages

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But it turned out I wasn’t alone and many people I knew were struggling with Sunday. The lonely, the single, the widowed - those who also needed company, a meal and a table full of people. From this Sunday Club was born.

It started with a couple of afternoon drinks in our favourite pub down by the harbour and then gravitated to a restaurant, usually for a cheery all-you-can-eat buffet. There was always food and we were always home by a decent hour, a wee bit watered but always with a full belly and a sense of grounding and gratitude.

As time progressed, the club ended up in the home of a friend. A beautiful long table that would easily sit 12, but sadly sat more empty following the loss of a dear wife, became fully populated again. The regulars are of all backgrounds, professions and ages, from their 40s to their 80s, everyone with their stories, interests and outlooks shared in a warm glow of food, fun and friendship. One evening, our friend’s collection of brass instruments was unlocked and we all tried to honk out a tune as an unlikely band of rascals formed. Burns Night was a particular favourite with the lights low and poems shared, the address written from the heart for those gathered there, our randomness somewhat our powerful grace.

I can’t wait for next year or for our New Year’s dinner. I believe the beef may already be defrosting as we look forward to gathering once again.

Alison Campsie is a specialist writer at The Scotsman​