A couple of weeks of enforced leisure -if sitting under a fig tree getting water-pistolled by a grandchild counts as leisure – gave me time to scan this year’s accounts. To date: six months of anxious unemployment; eight months of caring for an increasingly stroppy dementia sufferer; hospitalisation of the aforementioned with a serious leg injury; the subsequent cancellation of a much-needed holiday; and then a sudden death in the family. I think I got off lightly with nothing worse than a dose of shingles.
A little ad just popped up on my computer screen. It said KNOW MORE. DO MORE. DO BETTER. Whatever they’re selling, no thanks. I’m planning on doing less. The only thing I’ll be doing more of is saying No. I have a book to write, yippee, a sequel to The Future Homemakers of America, and I have a house move to contemplate, to somewhere smaller and simpler, but all in good time. I may be feeling bright-eyed and bushy-tailed compared to two weeks ago but I’ve larned my lesson. Old rocking chair got me. Take it away, Mildred.