I get up - I'm in a good mood and vowing to get myself back on track in my life.
I congratulate myself on remembering to take the recycling out to the kerbside.
I resolve to make myself a bowl of porridge for breakfast.
I listen to Brian Johnson of AC/DC talking about being on Top Gear and inexplicably find a piece of this in my hand.
Shortly thereafter, I find it in my mouth.
I am genuinely surprised and annoyed with myself - I’ve had a bit of chocolate cake and it's not even breakfast.
I go for a shower.
I will start Getting Serious About Things properly.
STARTING - NOW.
After my shower I race to see how quickly I can put on a reasonable face: Ten minutes – there’s no excuse for doing a facsimile of this every day – even if the only other adult I see is the postman. I feel less troll-like and go downstairs.
Postie has been. I open the envelope. ‘Dear Hestia, it has been 3 years since your last smear test. Please phone the health centre yada, yada, yada’
I try not to think about this.
I help Sonshine get dressed. He can do it himself, but he likes to have a bit of a chat as he re-immerses himself into the previous day’s reasonably clean t-shirt and jeans. Don’t panic – he has clean knickers and socks. I think.
Still no sign of Tertarus after the Bike Club’s Beach BBQ last night. It was one of those half-assed invitations: ‘You and Sonshine can come too, if you want to,’ he suggested lamely.
‘Will you be drinking yourselves into a coma?’ I asked.
‘I think we’ll give it a miss. But thanks for asking us anyway.’
I spend a happy half hour twittering and reading comments on m’blog.
I then spend another half hour reading my favourite blogs.
I realise that it is now half ten and I have had no breakfast other than a slice of chocolate cake.
I make a bowl of cornflakes with half-fat milk. It's not porridge, but it's not bad either.
I feel virtuous.
My neighbour comes to the door with a wrongly addressed letter for me.
It’s from a magazine that I contacted some time ago with a submission for an article.
I rip off the envelope with a mixture of excitement and dread. ‘Dear Hestia, thank you for sending us…yada, yada, yada….we will have to decline in this instance.’
I try not to think about this.
I type this morning’s futile existence out for the blog and find myself thinking about this.
I phone Sonshine’s friend and arrange a playdate.
I take half of the remaining cake with me for the playdate's older brother and sister.
There is now only a quarter of this left.
I wash dishes.
I straighten the lounge.
I get the scented candle going – Clean Linen, I think it’s called.
I check my e-mails and get some replies out.
Still no sign of Tertarus. I would like to think that he is lying shivering in his mysteriously damp sleeping bag, vowing never to drink that much again, but I know that he’ll actually be at the Ettrick Bay Tearoom having a full English with a mug of hot tea. He will be laughing with his friends, discussing MotoGP, oil changes and organising days away on the bike - all without Sonshine or me. He will be unwilling to tear himself away from their good-natured ribbing, unwilling to drag himself home to his reproachful and stony-faced domestic goddess.
I go downstairs into the kitchen.
I look at this.
I cut myself a slice.
It is midday and I’ve now had two bits of chocolate cake and a bowl of cornflakes.
Never mind, I tell myself. I can start again tomorrow.
Explore the ruined citadel of m'blog:
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