A whole evening to myself

This will be utter luxury, as long as I don’t fall asleep on the sofa: it has been a somewhat long week, with a degree of relentlessness at work. It all kept going, with people wanting stuff done (funny how people so often want things done, isn’t it). There were only two guiding related crises, and, really, one of those was actually drama rather than crisis. Still tiring though. I went to yoga today. I pity my poor claasmates, who had to listen to the awful noises my shoulders made as I twisted them into various positions. A tough, sweaty class. Needed. Not the most mindful practice I’ve ever done, but it hit the spot and helped. 

And then Terry Pratchett died on Thursday: wonderful, clever, funny man. I was reading his last book at 3am (I’d woken up in a panic about the Spare Division Knickers. Of all the things I have ever woken up panicking over, this really wins as being the most stupid). Thursday found the entire office at a Low Ebb. Friday, and Freda’s been killed off on The Archers (and Scruff the dog is still MIA). Poor Freda. Never a line of dialogue and then a sudden heart attack off speaker. 

I ought to be volunteering at parkrun this week, but, for some reason, I’ve not been written down. So I shall have a lie in instead. And maybe a long hot bath. Such bliss. The laundry is done, the Ocado ordered. All I need to do is gaze at my new Photobox Albums, do a little bit of guidemin, collect a parcel and that’s it for Saturday. Sunday is another half marathon. I’m beginning to feel a little blaisé about them. Which will probably cause chaos as I get too full of myself.