whingy melancholy tonight. I’m overtired, but not sleepy. There’s lots of things I feel I should be doing, but not a single thing I want to do. And I can’t think of anything to look forward to.
June rocked. I don’t know whether I made that quite clear enough, but it did. Holidays and fun and yarn and friends and music and memories and light and just a buzz of creativity. It went a long way to making up for the horrendousness of the first few months of 2011. And I’ve been having a ball putting together the words and pictures for blog posts.
After three consecutive weekends away (two with the delightfully exhausting company of Other People’s Children), I guess I ought to be delighted by the prospect of a quiet few weeks at home. But I’m horrified by the empty spaces in my diary. All I can see ahead is two and a half more weeks of end of term stressyness (yeah, I am a bad mother; I can’t make costumes, and I hate Sports’ Days), and then seven weeks of sitting at home, feeling the walls close in on me. The rational part of me knows this is entirely a choice, and I just need to get up off my arse and find things to do, but I’m just a little scared I won’t/can’t.
OK. Whinge over.
This is me last weekend. I hate having my photograph taken, so Katherine must have stalked me carefully while I was being distracted by clouds and light. In profile, I look like my father.
I’m dreaming of a Scottish roadtrip.