9:31 on Sunday night.
Staring down the full frontal assault of a week ahead.
I am so not with the hang of it all. And so very behind in personal communication that I don't know where to begin.
I was gasping for the weekend to arrive. Yesterday we drove to North Berwick... charming town on the north near the sea and ate lunch at the Ship Inn in order to eat chips. Mark has a hankering and I never met a fry I didn't learn to love. We also milled around and looked at sea urchins like barnacles and mussels and snail much like giddy 10 year olds. I even slipped on a seaweedy rock and fell on my tuccus (and was wearing skirt) to complete the graceful day. Today, like a proper Sunday, we spent the entire day paying homage to toast and tea with the Guardian, the Sunday Times and The Herald and broke our promises to ourselves and each other to go to the gym. Now it is too early to go to bed but too late to do anything but ... and I have yet to get out of the lazy day wardrobe.
I already have the Monday morning stomach ache. And wondering if it will go away after a few weeks of doing this. I realize that almost everyone in Goes to Work Every Day. And I am making an oddly large amount of noise about it. I just wonder what happened to me that I am finding it all rather hard to swallow. Or does everyone find it hard to swallow and have just learned to ignore the mass in their stomach that tells them that this is not what they are meant to do.