Exploded suitcases, mountains of washing, trails of sand and seashells in the sink and a great big bottomless bucket of demotivation. Something tells me we’re not on holiday anymore.
All aboard people.
The year is skidding sideways to a spectacular close, through a staggering line up of end of year concerts and presentation days, school fundraisers and festive drinks (and thank you drinks and goodbye drinks and what-the-hell-we-made-it-to-midday-Wednesday drinks). I’m not so much leading the charge really as flailing along behind it, one foot caught in the stirrup and my skirt up over my head.
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).