Tomorrow Is Another Day

There’s a lot not to like about Scarlett O’Hara but this phrase isn’t one of those things.

I’ve been having a week full to the brim of irritatingness, small and large.

I’m not in work tomorrow, for which I am truly thankful.

I have nowhere I have to be over the weekend and last weekend I did a tremendous cleaning job on my kitchen in preparation for Christmas baking.

Tomorrow is another day, and the one after that, and the one after that.

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Tomorrow Is Another Day

Tiny Sparks of Joy

A bank holiday weekend, meaning more time for many things.

Planning, organising and executing a lot of tiny but overdue projects at home.

Getting back to the gym following our holiday. I’m enjoying spinning more and more.

Knowing I’ll be getting into a bed with fresh sheets tonight.

Date night, which we haven’t done for weeks because of holidays and other commitments.

Tiny Sparks of Joy

Home Sweet Home

We had a great holiday, apart from the bed situation. We had to sleep on a small uncomfortable mattress for 16 nights. By the end of our time in France, we were both looking forward to our beds on the ferry which are surprisingly comfortable. When we got home and slept well on our very comfortable memory foam mattress I was never so grateful for a good night’s sleep. I have growing to appreciate these types of things more and more. I guess I don’t need that much at all.

Home Sweet Home

In Which I Take To My Bed Again

I had an extremely long week in work this week. Not only were the hours many, the work was stressful. I spent very little time at home and it seemed like I’d only just gotten into bed ¬†before I was up again. Last night, I got home late again and watched some of the Brexit coverage. I went to bed very late, having seen the polls that suggested Britain’s Remain campaign had won a tight victory.

This morning I woke at 530 am and saw the news. I literally cannot believe it. I’ve grown up in a country where only because of Europe have women’s conditions improved¬†and where travelling freely between myriad countries renders charming some of the scenes at customs in my Chalet School books.

I was so exhausted I took to my bed a few hours ago. I slept badly and daytime naps don’t tend to agree with me. I don’t know whether the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach is because the world has tilted in an unfamiliar and undesirable direction or whether my utterly exhausting week and the emotion of today’s result is finally catching up with me. Either way, I’m tired, slightly confused and not at all secure in myself right now.

In Which I Take To My Bed Again