I am alive.
It is morning.
I am not rushing backwards and forwards to the facilities every ten minutes, wearing a ‘desire path’ through the shag pile.
I believe this is what people in the modern world call progress.
I feel slightly like I have been run over by a steam roller full of gin, which seems a tad unfair given that no gin has passed my lips, but it is infinitely preferable to how I felt yesterday.
The children are rather grumpy. They could get used to this not going to school business, which is fine, given that they only have two days to go before the Easter holidays. They can look upon it as training.
As part of my grand EBay clear out, I intend to take my wardrobe to serious task today. Up to now I have been picking items that fall on me as I stagger in there of a morning. Today we move up a gear and I have decided to start sorting through my belongings on a serious basis. It is a little daunting. It is a good job I have lots of cake left over from yesterday to steady my nerves and make me ruthless.
It is not like the wardrobe doesn’t need a bit of editing. It is fair to say that the words ‘capsule wardrobe’ were not designed with me in mind. Not unless the capsule happens to be the size of a small lorry container anyway.
The thing that made me realise that I could do more on the old clearing out front is that, despite having shifted literally hundreds of items in the last few weeks, it would take only the keenest, Eagle Eye Action Man type person to actually note where anything is gone. The house is still stuffed to the rafters with crap.
Before all the burglars of the world unite to track down my house and pounce on it with eager, striped mitts, do not get excited. Not unless you like to burgle four hundred novelty t-shirts, some dusty, mis-matched china and a collection of wildly silly hats. In which case, do pop round. I will put the kettle on.
Which is not worth stealing either.
I had thought I was going to the school secretary’s leaving do this evening. It transpires I am not. Please, when I start my next career, do not let me be a PA. I am absolutely horrendous at juggling diaries. Something inevitably falls through the cracks. Usually me.
I am not going to the leaving do, because I had already booked to go to the RSC to see The Roaring Girl, a comedy by Middleton and Dekker, with Andrea and her mum. And I am driving. So I am duty bound. I have no idea how funny it will be. It is difficult to tell with anything that is pre The Young Ones, what constitutes comedy. The last one we saw there, which was contemporaneous with what we are seeing tonight, was ridiculous. It was, as I described to my friend Claire, a cross between ‘Whoops! There go my Bloomers!’ and ‘Carry on Matron.’ I loved it. I am hoping for the same thing tonight given how much coffee I will need to ingest between now and then to keep me awake and fit to drive in a straight line.
The day beckons. Let us bestride the hours like a Colossus. Or something.