Ah, the new year. I’d be organised. The housework would all be done. I’d understand what everyone was talking about. I’d develop a strategic viewpoint. I’d get niggly things sorted. I’d post on the blog regularly, and plan ahead. I’d know what I was doing.
So, how has it happened that it’s 2.30pm on the second Friday of 2013, and I’m just out of bed? The ironing pile hasn’t been cleared this year. There are notes of meetings to sort. Conference invitations. How do we brief the Minister? Worst of all, the medical insurance review form needs completed if the mortgage is to be paid. (One of those insurance things that are often mis-sold has come in very handy.) That means I need to spend lots of time trying to articulate what I can’t do- always joyful.
Yes indeed people, my head is spinning, but my body isn’t complying. Those meetings that need to be followed up? All that getting there and then doing thinking has worn me out. L and I are still trying to top up our culture with lunch time events which are good for the soul, but bad for the body. My limbs are like lead. Sitting upright is more of a challenge than you might imagine.
My head is busy; if only I could be sure that mean it was working properly. Too often that’s just a spinning fog, so there’s no guarantee I’ll be able to make sense of the 26 questions I have to answer for insurance purposes.
I’m alive and well, and reading your posts. I’m as busy as I can be. I’m recovering. Life is laughing at my plans. Prepare for more fluff and other people articulating my rage better than I ever could. Maybe I could persuade Owen Jones to complete my form?
This the song that’s been in my head for days. I’m not that flexible, and I’m wearing enormous pyjamas in the middle of the afternoon.