As the door slowly closes on my weeklong enforced Holiday At Home I have cause to reflect on what I have actually achieved. I cleaned Some of the Things, unpacked half a box of random items and wrote precisely one tenth of the amount of the dastardly novel that I intended to.
In other news, I got drunk and ordered cosmetics I didn’t need, went out for boozy lunches far too much and lazed around in delightfully expensive new bedsheets my bank won’t thank me for buying on my credit card. I’ve spent all my holiday pay and have about $20 til Thursday, signed the final documents for the new pad and generally lounged around in my garden wearing less than I probably should, talking nonsense to the cat and trying to avoid the creepy neighbour who keeps looking down at me through his bathroom window.
* Yup, this has been mostly me. Especially During the Day…
Of an evening when I’m at home, I’ve listened to the traffic and drunk people shouting at cars. I’ve discovered a doppleganger, I have pranced around in my skinniest jeans (thanks gastro-diet), got smashed with friends, been to a gig, visited a delightful baby and managed not to accidentally drop her but I have Not Yet Been to Me.
Kidding. All in all, I’m claiming success. Never have nine days gone so bloody quickly. Never have they been filled with so many good intentions that have been thrust aside for pure laziness and self indulgence. So instead of beating myself up for being such a slattern, good intentions shall be followed through with next week when I’m back at work and I’m thrust quite unwillingly into the day-to-day business of Being a Grown Up, rather than spending my pocket money on gin and slouching around in my pyjamas.
Yes, next week, I will mostly be doing All the Things I said I would do when I embarked on this work-enforced madness. I can hardly wait. No, really.