I’ve been in denial for some time but the truth is irrefutable. ProBlogger is done and dusted. That plush hotel room and big soft white bed all to myself, towering golden pyramids of pina colada macarons and cheerful Phil (sorry Hank) bringing me a perfectly made double shot cappuccino each morning is all but a distant rosy memory.
Welcome to the wee hours. That strange disembodied patch of time after the kids have gone to bed and the house is finally quiet, otherwise known as ‘your time’ – if you can keep your eyes open long enough and your hands off the wine.
To be fair, this used to be when I did my best work. 10pm was my magic hour. I was a card-carrying, candle-end burning night owl, meeting tight deadlines after heroic all-nighters and then backing it up the next day with nothing more than a shower and a double shot (sometimes espresso).
Hank and I before the vow.
Have you ever noticed how six weeks can just suddenly rush past you like a raging river torrent surging with climate-change glacial melt, engulfing all in its path? Just me then? Not that I’m one to be overly dramatic of course but that’s a reasonable approximation of life since my last post here. I know, it’s been that long. Appalling lack of commitment so early in the piece, if I do say so myself.