It’s that time of the holidays – when cabin fever begins to kick in and other people start to get on your nerves (or is that just me?)
‘I really feel like you need to go out,’ I say to my husband.
‘You mean you want the house to yourself?’ he grumbles slightly, but agrees he probably needs the exercise. Stepson is at his Mum’s for his second Christmas, and my daughter was going to go out to a friend’s but decided she wouldn’t bother. I decided to try to get her to tidy her room, but then decided that I wouldn’t bother.
My brain is finally getting the message from my body that putting a Baileys Irish Cream into every single coffee you drink, just because your stepson bought you a bottle for Christmas and it tastes nice, does not make you big and clever (well, not clever anyway).
My brain and body have become so sluggish that this is all I can muster in the name of a blog-post, and I am close to enforcing a march up to the top of Holcombe Hill, the windiest place in Lancashire.
This is probably further evidence that I have turned into my mother, who used to march me along the seafront of Northumberland every Boxing Day, telling me to stop complaining, as the wind from the North Sea sand-papered my face.
‘It’s refreshing,’ she would say and I would roll my eyes and continue to complain (but out of earshot). Yet now, I feel the need for some refreshment (other than another Baileys with ice)…