I used to hate Sundays. No matter what happened on a Sunday, Monday would always follow and that was the problem. I hated Mondays too. Not any more though. The joy of working for myself is that Mondays are nothing to fear. There is no commute to endure, no nasty boss to appease, Monday is what I make of it.
The morning was spent cleaning in preparation for our student tenants and then I took Dad out for lunch.
He complained of having a sore toe and wanted me to have a look. I know that sounds innocuous, but I can’t stand feet. I can barely bring myself to peer at my own, let alone my aged father’s.
Anyway, with the help of the torch on my iPhone I deduced that he has Athlete’s Foot and we went and got some cream. I reminded myself that this a small ‘medical’ situation compared with what is to come. I am rubbish with bodily stuff and must toughen up. The only reason I have coped with three kids and a dog is because my husband is not in the least bit squeamish. He is not afraid of spiders either. I chose well.
I made more promises to myself to write the novel, but managed zero words. I went to a stretch class instead and while my back feels great, the novel is upset with me. Oh well, there’s always tomorrow.
Progress is being made.