Momentarily, we’re heading off for a twinkly weekend in the Malvern hills with my best friend pei and partner, to stay with pei’s mum, who is also my mum’s best friend, and my sister H’s godmother. You follow? It’s going to be lovely, and quite Christmassy, with rumoured reindeer (in the town, not the house), mulled wine and perhaps some snow. I love Christmas, and don’t mind if it starts in November. Why, before we set off for the hills, I’m going to tip my bodyweight of dried fruit into a mixing bowl, slosh it with brandy and leave it to get drunk while we’re away, in preparation for baking the Christmas cake on Sunday.
Before I go, I wanted to write at least something that would put a more measured lid on the rather spiky and unravelled ball of angst that was my last post. I don’t just want to leave it… stewing… there, you know?
So here’s a random observation from last night’s British Military Fitness class: How wonderful it is to get totally caked in mud, so that you have to scrub yourself with soap in the old-fashioned way in the shower afterwards, brown water sploshing against the tiles and clods of grass dropping into the bath. Seriously. Getting totally mud-caked and then completely clean is a very wholesome, exhilerating experience (shout out to all you gardeners!), perhaps because it’s something that we usually leave behind in childhood. When I was four, I stripped totally naked, covered myself in mud and crowned myself Mud Girl (I have photos. You will not be seeing them). Aged 28 I might not go that far, but I still get a childlike joy from rolling around in the dirt.
Oh my. I can just envision the pervy google search hits I’m gonna get now…