I’m back! And I promise I didn’t stay away so long in order to rack up the flattering “please come back!” comments (two of which were from immediate family members so, you know, blogebrity am I none).
Life has been the usual box of chocolates: the fun ones with creamy centres- a grannybreak to Stratford, a birthday party for G; the nutty ones which stick in your throat; and the empty spaces thanks to all the chocolates which were STOLEN by a mean life-thief called WORK.
I don’t mean to go on, but by way of excusing my loooong absence, have I mentioned that my work life balance is, at times, screwed? Last week was a particularly surreal succession of hotel rooms and lone dinners and long drives with only Radio 4 for company (oh alright, and Radio 2). Meanwhile friendships went untended, parents went unvisited, boyfriends (well, boyfriend) went uncuddled, and tomato seedlings went unplanted and grew so tall that they curled out of the chimney, wound their way down the M6 and poked their feathery fingers into my guilty conscience as I slept in my hotel bed in Somerst. A leggy seedling does not a fruitful harvest make.
But I think my heart/homesickness can best be surmised by the fact that, all week long, I was longing to get home and clean the bathroom. I craved the time to get in the bath in my pants and vest (bathroom cleaning is much too splashy a task for trousers), cup of tea on the windowsill, and really get in between the tiles with an old toothbrush.
On Saturday, as I finally, merrily, got stuck into the grout, I wondered whether some people would consider life too short to care about cleaning the gaps between the tiles.
But when you’re kept from the tiny cogs and wheels of life, the grout-scrubbing and seedling-planting and laundry-hanging, you realise that this is the stuff that makes Life. In my view it’s too short NOT to care about the gaps between the tiles.
(and to maybe blog every now and again…)