I wake up and throw on multiple layers of clothing, then add a few more as I remember the glacial draughts in my office. I am too tired to even entertain traditionally murderous thoughts against alarm clocks.
I start opening the shutters, a new week has started and I have zero reserves of energy left.
Every day feels like a long repetition of the same automatic gestures, pulling laundry in and out of the washing machine, crockery in and out of the dishwasher, children in and out of snowsuits, meals in and out of the oven, bills in and out of envelopes.
Last night, I miscalculated my turn while parking the car into my own space (d’oh!) and scratched it, this morning I poured orange juice instead of milk into my daughter’s cereal, and I generally feel like crying multiple times a day: I need a holiday.
Which is just as well, because on Friday, the smurfs and I will be flying off to Cyprus, where we will be
descending upon unsuspecting visiting friends for a week. The only downside to this delicious treat, is that I’ll probably be pining for the delicious treat I left at home…
Mr Nice is taking me out tonight (woohoo, I don’t think I’ve ever really celebrated Valentine’s Day before!). Of course, I like to pretend that being a cool and sophisticated woman, I could not care less for such a lowly marketing operation designed by supermarkets to sell you heart-shaped butter and pink bin bags.
But secretly, I am thrilled. Nevermind that Mister Nice had not realised it was Valentine’s day (typical man, you’d think he has been living in a cave for the last month), and hadn’t booked any restaurant, so we’ll probably end up eating a kebab under a bridge rather than dining out by candle light. I keep humming Ben Howard* in my head and smiling idiotically (a sport I seem to be practicing at olympic level these days).
* Yes, bear with me, I’m going through a bit of a Ben Howard phase – Everything: