Many years ago (before I moved to the sunny Isle) I commuted into London every day. I had two small children, worked full time and spent 3 – 4 hours of each day on the train and the tube. I was also for some considerable time, a single parent. In that time I did a high pressured job in advertising, did a degree and raised two kids. I cleaned, shopped, cooked and did all the other domestic type stuff that everyone else did. Now, my question to you Dear Reader is, how did I do it?
I have, as you will know if you follow this drivel, just started a full time Monday to Friday job. It is ten minutes away across the chain ferry in Cowes and I no longer have small children (although teenagers quite often do very good 4 year old impressions…) and have long since given up on housework as a bad job. So why was it then, when Friday night FINALLY came around that I was COMPLETELY exhausted? The fridge was bare, the house was freezing, the laundry was piled high and there was a call to the shop for very necessary wine supplies. Having pondered this all weekend I have come to the following conclusion;
*whispers* I have got old without noticing and therefore have less stamina.
So, instead of
bowing to my ancientness taking it easy over the weekend, I have rushed round like a lunatic, shopping, buying Christmas presents, washing, ironing and cleaning. I have cut out 240 jar tops for all the jars of delight that the ACL and I have created for a big Christmas fair at the beginning of December. In addition, I have made some very diddly Christmas puds for my Mum and a friend who lives alone
which despite their size still took
15 years ages to cook.
I made some of these
which sit on my work table and keep me company as do the rest of these which are waiting to be turned into more of those…..
and which have all been preordered for Christmas.
But all is not lost Dear Reader, because wafting up the stairs is the heavenly scent of one of TG’s fabulous roasts and furthermore he is home next week before he departs for South Africa and assures me that he’ll cook every evening…so there is hope for me and my ancientness!
The bird of time has but a little way to fly
And lo! The bird is on the wing…..