Ouch.

I reeeeally don’t want to go to choir today. It’s one of those things. Like your kid begs you to let him start taking karate lessons, and then three weeks later he’s complaining that he doesn’t want to go, and you force him to go, and he has a great time because he kicked Freddie in the face.

Anyway, I’ve not been for 2 weeks because I was ill the first time, and the choir leader was ill the second time, so I feel kinda rusty and insecure and apprehensive about it again. I know it’ll be fine once I get there. But you know how it is. It’s a dreary, woeful Tuesday and the rain is just waiting to pounce and cling to the bottom of my scuffed trouser legs. I hit my head on a cupboard today which was a fabulous highlight, and I’m not even going to begin to tell you what is happening within the walls of my workplace, except that it smells like despair and feels like wearing a coat made of syrup (sans pancakes).

I’m taking tomorrow off in an attempt to regain my composure (read: sanity). My plans thus far are to have an exceedingly long bath, write a bunch of cover letters, cook some dinner for my long suffering husband, and play lots and lots of music. I have a busking catalogue to refine, four songs to write, and Briscoe things to find my place among. I have a feeling that one day isn’t going to be enough, but I’ll take what I can get.