It is after noon. My back aches, my limbs hurt and my brain is fluff. The thought of being upright defeats me.
I had plans. Not exciting, adventure type plans. More the dull, domestic ones. Plans to stop us contracting some scary bug from the grub, or drowning in dust, or simply starving.
I have a list of tasks. Most of them aren’t completed. Even the easy ones.
I’m going to need to move. The children are well used to me being in bed, but they’d get anxious if they were to find me as they left me, the great unwashed, wrapped in the duvet.
My hair is a problem. Not a world economic problem, or a coalition government problem, but a problem for me, right now. It needs washed. Will I be able to stand for that long? It’s too short at the minute; can I face the thought of straightening it? No. So, it will look ridiculous, and I won’t have time to sort it tomorrow before we spend many more hours looking at secondary schools. Who’ll be looking at me anyway?
Guilt, I shouldn’t be so negative about spending time at schools- how else are we going to find out where might suit Girl1? But they do drag on, and I’ve run out of enthusiasm. So I have energy for guilt, but not enough for excitement? Maybe bed is the right place for me.
It’s miserable and dank outside.
What do you mean, you don’t want to call round? I’ll not be smelly by the time you get here…