Good afternoon, friends and beloved readers.
My regular visitors will have realised by now that I failed miserably at my promise to post on #MusicMondays, #TasterTuesdays and #WriterWednesdays.
In my defence I do have an excuse, or excuses, and it’s nothing along the lines of ‘My dog ate my wordpress blog’ or ‘I was abducted by aliens’. Although the second option might give me something exciting to do next weekend.
Basically the week before last, I went on my holibobs. I packed up the suitcase, the husband, the little one and the dog into the car and we headed to the Norfolk coast for a week, where I ate my own bodyweight in food designed to horrifically torture my arteries and did little else apart from take in a bit if sunshine and watch late night horror films. I wrote a short story called Angie, Banjo and The Bogeyman that I then posted on here when I returned (go read if you like your serial killers who live in suburbia and tend their gardens at the weekends). But there was no wi-fi access – SHOCK HORROR – so blogging was a no-no.
Then upon our return we were greeted with great streams of Union Jack bunting and threw ourself whole-heartedly into the Queen’s Jubilee celebrations with a street party, enough cake to induce a sugar coma and much mirth (and a little bit of undisguised horror) about Cliff Richard and his salmon suit at the Jubilee concert.
This continued all the way through to the Tuesday of last week and then we’ve been back to work, had a family wedding (which consisted of more cake) and last, but definitely not least – MY BIRTHDAY!
13th June – unlucky for some but obviously not for me, as how on earth could you deem the number 13 unlucky when you were born on that date? Of course, possibly unlucky for those that have the misfortune to cross paths with me and definitely unlucky for the squirrel that met an untimely death under my wheels a couple of weeks ago (and yes, I did cry and no, I’m not ashamed to say it, despite never having had a good opinion of these critters previous to this incident).
So of course, yesterday meant yet more cake followed not only by indigestion, but by a warm and fuzzy feeling generated by a gazillion Facebook and Twitter messages wishing me happy birthday, visits from much-loved family, flowers from much-loved friends and a day off with hubby and the little one. Good times.
I can only apologise about the epic fail of living up to my promise of blogging on a more regular basis. I probably should have warned you that I am the Queen of Epic Fails. It is a rare occasion for me to come good on something I’ve promised to do or committed to. I was always the same as a child. Brownies lasted all of six months. I never even earned one badge (well, that first one was something about going to some woman’s house and making her a cup of tea and doing her ironing and there was no way I was going to do that!). Disco dancing didn’t hold my attention. Mum bought be a rather sparkly jade green catsuit and once I achieved my bronze medal (for a rather wonderful routine all danced to the soulful sounds of Kool and The Gang’s Get Down On It) I decided that I would rather play in the fields behind my friend’s house and have crab apple fights with my brother. Horse-riding didn’t progress much further than a rather lazy trot through the Bedfordshire country lanes. It clashed with Little House on the Prairie on TV and that was far less tiring to do.
So you see, I’m what you might call ‘flighty’. It’s not so much that I get bored easily, it’s more that I get distracted too easily. I’m distracted by life, by people, by twitter, by something at the corners of my vision, by the ghosts of dead squirrels whispering ‘murderer’ in my ear, and most of all, quite clearly distracted by too much damn cake.
Damn you, cake. Damn you to hell.