Anyone who thinks that Sunday is a day of rent needs to spend a couple of hours in my living room. From the minute I am awakened by the shrill, ear piercing ring of the telephone, until the end of whatever premiership football match is showing on Sky, I am bombarded with a cacophony of sounds. The person on the other end of the telephone is usually one of my brothers and, for some reason, my parents seem to be selectively deaf to the ringing that will inevitably drag me out of my deep, peaceful slumber. The conversations that take place near ....