It’s been a busy couple of weeks. And yes I know, these days everybody goes on about how busy they are, as if being stressed is some kind of status symbol, but I promise you I don’t relish being so full on. Personally I loved April and May, what with all those bank holidays and bonus days off. The work/life balance was right whereas at the moment it’s way off kilter. I’ve got a new job presenting on a shopping channel which launches next week so have been rehearsing and training for that, my new book comes out in a month, I’m finishing my third novel, the children’s calendars are stuffed to the brim and my husband is about to go away on business for a week. All of which you need to know in order for the following story to make any sense at all.
The day before yesterday I phoned my best friend on the way to work and ranted, in a way you only can to someone you’ve known for two decades.
‘And today’s going to be such a long day,’ I wailed ‘And I haven’t really slept because I’ve got insomnia because I’m so stressed, and hubby’s away next week when I’ve got to work every day until midnight so I need to sort out 900 hours of childcare, and the kids will be needy and sad so I feel GUILTY, and I’m not working tomorrow but have millions of bits and pieces to do but also have people coming for dinner and no idea what to cook….’
At this point her answer machine cut me off, terminating my stream of angst. To be fair I didn’t blame it.