I’ve not had a night in for eleven days. I got home from a weekend away in Southampton late this afternoon and took the opportunity to finally tidy and clean my space. I also turned a bag of carrots and some tomatoes into soup for lunch for the week while finishing off a box of birthday chocolates. I suppose this has to mark the official end of my thirtieth celebrations.
The contents of my fridge and food cupboard are now: half a bag of cherry tomatoes, an almost empty tube of tomato puree, an open block of butter, two pieces of stale pannetone and four eggs:
Well not quite. I have got other bits and pieces floating around too, but this serves to demonstrate how little time I feel I’ve spent at home. And there’s no real point in food shopping when I’m only going to be in one night this week too.
Despite seemingly being so busy, I don’t seem to be able to think of anything exciting to report.
Is this part of not being in your twenties anymore? Your time is not filled with exciting encounters, philosophical debates, cultural exploits, but with nights out doing things so unremarkable there’s nothing to write home about? Or is it that my brain is now so aged I’m unable to think of how to make these things seem interesting?
Here’s what I’ve done the past ten days:
been to governor’s meetings
given guitar lessons
done church stuff
been on a date (which I did write about so perhaps should be excluded from this list)
eaten pizza with a friend
learnt about children’s holiday camps in Moldova
travelled to Bridgend
fed 60 people Parkin and Treacle Spice Cake
Yep. There are plenty of things to write about. It’s just a bit like filling up my fridge, I know I need to do it to live, but I’ve not really had the time to do it. So unfortunately this post is probably the equivalent of eating the remnants of a box of chocolates – it’ll have to put you on until I’ve got time to do something proper.