Getting slaughtered in a pretty home
Kitty Jim-Jams sums up the whole dichotomy of growing up. Our culture tells us that in our late-20s/early-30s we are still young and wild and crazy but a tiny inner part of us is bored with that and wants to do 'grown-up' things. The very fact we call them 'grown-up' rather than 'adult' indicates our youthful attitude. So now I can go to a sticky-floored gig in some student bar somewhere on the Saturday night, and dish up freshly made pancakes on the Sunday. A little from column A and a little from column B.
This weekend is a freebie (i.e. no chap). So far I have: drunk too much San Miquel whilst watching a Black Books DVD; painted an outer wall (before, during, after) and got a nasty blister right on a finger joint in the process; prepped a dessert for a friend's dinner; drunk lots of wine and got the last bus home; and made fresh blueberry muffins for breakfast (with fruit from my local Stokes). Next weekend I'll be out on the town on the Friday and at a festival on Sunday. There will be no cooking, just going to Cafe Mozart for breakfast. I want to be able to do all of these things, all tangled together because life shouldn't be shoved into a set of compartments and a person neatly labelled as one type or another. I want to be able to do my own DIY, walk across cobblestones in wedge heels, tramp through the mobs at festivals, cook and sew. Oh, and write. Since the blister prevents me from doing more DIY this weekend, I may do some serious work on the various stories. I want a little from columns A, B, C, D and E.