Days of Whine and Protest
A friend asked me what my plans were for the weekend. My first response was, ‘Is it weekend?’
I know I’m not alone in losing track. With lockdown, the days of the week are barely distinguishable. On Mondays, weather permitting, I meet friends for illicit outdoor coffees and sometimes the exchange of craft materials. It’s a sort of County Lines for knitting yarn. Wednesdays are now my screen-free days, yippee. Saturday means clean sheets, which I think you’ll agree, is better than three sheets. Everything else is a beige mural of sameness. Nothing in the diary. So I suppose my weekend plan may as well be to work.
I’m not going to get into That Interview (I’ve already been told how vile, clueless and arrogant we British are) except to ask, is there a family on God’s green earth that doesn’t discuss what an expected baby will look like? In my family the question was whether any of my children would inherit Grandad Bill’s ginger gene (they didn’t) or the distinctly dusky Romany appearance of Great Gran Lil (not that either). On my husband’s side we had the added ingredient of his (very) mixed race adopted daughter. Would her children have her colouring, her husband’s or an interesting re-emergence of something from her largely unknown ancestry? Well, all of the above, it turns out. My point being, it’s just something people talk about. Right?
Those of you who subscribe to my mailing list will recently have received the latest Interview With.
The rest of you, mailing list refuseniks, can now read it here, update on the once and Future Homemakers. Because I’m a caring, sharing kind of person, albeit one who isn’t always sure what day of the week it is.
I’m not a refusenik.
I’ve signed up for emails a couple of times but never receive them.
Have you indeed? I’ll investigate.