How apt it would have been on this, the birthday of Emily Dickinson, to announce that:
I started early, took my dog,
And visited the sea . . .
But, sadly, I did not. Instead:
I started early, groaned a lot
And made a cup of tea . . .
And then I climbed back into bed, thinking 'I ought to finish that book while I drink my tea', but failing to do so; and then thinking 'I must get up and put away all SD3's clothes (which, owing to her bedroom floor being so completely impassable, have been accumulating in accusing piles in my room instead of making their way into her chest of drawers)', but I didn't; and then thinking 'I could be at my desk clearing an hour's worth of work instead of lying here drinking tea'; and also 'I could, belatedly, be turning all that soaking fruit into a Christmas cake instead of lying here drinking tea', neither of which materialised. I continued to lie there drinking tea. And then I thought of someone else whose birthday is today, and someone whose birthday was yesterday but I completely forgot to pop a card through their letterbox, and then I thought: 'at what age, precisely, will I finally get to grips with all this life/work balance malarkey and turn into a domestic goddess?'.
Tea drained, I eventually got up and woke the rest of the household. In less than a month it will be time to make New Year's Resolutions. What will mine be? To get to grips with all this life/work balance malarkey and turn into a domestic goddess, of course.
I seem, hazily, to recall having made a similar resolution last time around. Has any progress been achieved on the domestic front in the last twelve months? I checked back to see how I was doing at this point exactly a year ago, and this is what I found.
I think that answers my question.
Onward and downward . . .