I returned home in good spirits (thank you February Vogue, thank you Starbee) if only ever so slightly deflated. Rick is in London for work, mum and dad are back at their own digs, William and Victoria have spent the day sleeping (or pretending to; either way, they haven’t moved) and the best I could do was wielding cleaning products and the Dyson for a good three hours. I have often asked myself why my house turns into a dust-infested shithole as soon as the new year is out of its nappies. I vacuumed dust bunnies as big as my head today; you would think it’s the first time the Dyson is out to play since mid-December but, oh no, I last used it yesterday morning. And the same applies to the bathroom; it has now had a damn good scrub and has been dripping in bleach for the past hour. It should be safe to eat off its floor if I were so insanely inclined.
I have decided to take the weekend off, which is an odd thing to say, not simply because weekends are usually off-times, but because I haven’t been on for... well... a month. Maybe more. But the disgusting truth is, I cannot face the usual music of writing, editing, creating, writing again, creating some more. Quite frankly, I’d quite happily hop on a plane and spend some time in even colder climates if I could. Nothing like truly polar temperatures to clear one’s own mind I am telling you.
