I came home from Europe only to be swept off to Boston a week later. I returned with all sorts of plans, of things I ought to do in my daily life. Like running 6 days a week, and writing at least three pages every day, and I must say that I have failed miserably at most of these goals.
My room is in shambles with drawers half closed, and clothes spilling out. My suitcase still sits before my desk, half emptied, and clothes frothing from it's depths. My desk is piled high with books papers and jaffa cake (God Save the Queen!) My laundry basket is balancing on top of a shoe box, and a single leg of my now smoky smelling jeans (smores anyone?) dangles over the top.
The room reflects my life. Somewhat, in shambles, not yet recovered from all the traveling and I am afraid that I am simply too tired to put it all right.
In other news the new Garden Gnome peers at me from beneath the willow out back. I give him a smile whenever I can, but I'm still getting used to the idea that he is here.
I have to get up so that I can go to work, but all my muscles ache and I think that two babies in one week is a sign that we ought to just close the store up and have holiday.