A Friday

I lost yesterday to a good book and am planning the same for today. Tomorrow I begin a long drive south – ‘begin’ because I’m breaking the journey overnight so will arrive on Sunday.  And as usual I’m crinkled with anticipatory guilt at leaving the dogs.

It seems odd to have the day before a journey, to myself.  Usually I’m working and have to hare about trying to pack, collect the car, deliver dogs on the day  I leave.  Today, in theory I could pack.  But  I shan’t.  I find I need the adrenaline which only comes with panic, for that task.  I may write letters. I shall write notes and thoughts (just not here; this, I find, is a way of warming up to the more physical writing using pen and paper).

An unnoteworthy post

What a summer. It was not meant to be idle, but it was meant to be relaxed – and it’s been neither.  Today I met the last of my postgrad students for the year.  I have a pile of marking, but I can cope with that.  I’ve had enough of meetings and talking and  e-admin, though.

Now I’ll re-read Shakespeare’s Richard III over a pot of tea, walk the dogs through the teeming rain I love, and sleep. 

When did my ideal holiday become so very unremarkable?