I am ashamed to admit how much I love being home alone. My children are (of course) delightful, and (naturally) I adore their charming and lively company, but- oh! they are tiring (to be fair, some are more tiring than others… yes, I’m looking at you, Big Girl…)
I haven’t done anything extraordinary or memorable today. I read a book, cover to cover. I wandered down to the village, and browsed library and charity shops, and bought just what I wanted for lunch. I had an afternoon nap. I had spurts of domesticity (oh look, things stay tidy! how magical!) I played the music I wanted, at the volume I wanted. I cooked dinner just for me. And I got mildly drunk on my new genius invention: gin and tonic and strawberry and elderflower.
Now I’m sitting out in the garden finishing off the housewarming blanket, and watching bats.
By tomorrow, even this introvert may be ready for some gentle company, but for now, I’m so very content.