It's been a whole week since I last posted, and I have no excuse apart from general busy-ness. At the moment, I feel a little like Bridget Jones, listing her achievements and failures every morning. My bedroom seems to signify the 'things to do' list in my head: the stack of books to review, the notebook half-full of ideas for the as-yet-unwritten novel of the zeitgeist, the heap of charity shop clothes 'to adjust', the patchwork blanket looking at me reproachfully, even the secret double-figures of the list emerge as the stash of prospectuses for the Masters in English Lit I will probably never do. And that's not to mention the general crop rotation of physical maintenance: having time to eat something other than sandwiches and go to the gym, ironing clothes, even my hair is a work in progress.
Still, some good things have happened: my Glastonbury tickets came this morning (even if I look like a drug dealer on the photo), as did my new very kitsch necklace from here and also I found half a packet of chocolate buttons in my bag. As Bridget would say, v gd.
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