Oh heavens, there is just no hope for me. After spending the day fluffing up the final fiddly bits of The Vintage Housekeepers Circle (the first email went out today, yey!), I sat down this evening to write a post for BrocanteHome that I've been dwelling on all week.
And write I did. Feet coccooned in some silly stripy bed socks because the weather has taken a turn for an early Winter, and a nice mug of chai latte at my side. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote and when I finally got off my high horse to publish the slightly inane rantings of one exhausted Vintage Housekeeper, I pressed send, stood up to stretch my legs and promptly tripped over my laptop wire thus disconnecting the entire matter and wasting a good two hours of pretty outrage.
If I was a toddler I would have fallen to the floor and had a hissy fit. But instead I am taking my silly self to bed and in the morning I will start writing all over again.
Because all of a sudden, writing is my job. Fancy that! I am what I wanted to be when I was growing up. (Only in my childhood dreams I was more your Barbara Cartland chaise longue kinda writer than the daft sort who never remembers to save her work and labours under the permanent illusion that she said it better the first time round...)
Sweet dreams Housekeepers.x