I had a little cry this morning.

I opened my eyes and thought- maybe I can’t face today. Maybe I will just stay here.

You know one of those days?

And before I knew it I was sobbing on to Mark’s shoulder, begging him not to go to work, to find my lost voice,  banish pmt and find a cure for the common cold.

He laughed, and kissed me and said I was asking to much of him. Then he got up and left  me crying grey tears  into my vintage pillowcase.

It’s nothing you see.  It’s exhaustion. And no end to it. It’s nothing. Truly it isn’t.

So I pulled myself  out of bed and hugged him goodbye and drank coffee and freaked the baby out with my strange raspy whisper and then I  made pancakes.

Because although I made the batter yesterday, I forgot to have Pancake Tuesday thereafter.

And so this morning, in a break with tradition, I have had Pancake Wednesday Morning.

One perfect pancake with chocolate orange sauce and one perfect pancake with lavender butter and sugar served with  that strange hybrid  of a plum and an  apricot: the plucot.

How did they taste? Like cardboard. Like everything else.

But it’s the ritual that counts isn’t it?

Ritual matters on day’s like this.