It has been a week of relaxing things.

Monday was spent working, but in my pyjamas from my living room, which meant that by the time I realised it was coming up to 6.30 and time to go and help run a youth group, I didn’t have time to wash any of my presentable outfits. So I put my hair up, shoved my feet into a pair of heels, threw a jacket over what I already had on, and went in my pyjamas. I don’t think anyone noticed. The group was a lot of fun; I very much enjoy working with teenagers and hope I’ll be able to do more of it over the coming months.

The majority of the rest of the week was spent on planning and admin and work and things: trying to coordinate my schedule, remember who I need to call and when, putting things together for my clients, planning next stages of execution for lots of different projects. There are so many things that are so… nearly… there…. it’s exciting and fun and tiring and challenging and interesting. And I like that. 🙂

On Wednesday night I finally succumbed: I’d had a special something in my kitchen for a few months, waiting for the right occasion, and I decided that actually, celebrating the acceptance of my first ever research paper on which I’m not just an “al” was enough of an excuse to crack it open,

which of course meant that on Thursday I was a little the worse for wear, though all things considered it was alright.

I spent some time singing opera in my living room, volume cranked up and windows open, which I find immensely relaxing. And then all of a sudden it was Friday and I was jetting off across the country to go and hang out with some friends for the weekend.

There was music and dancing and a bonfire. There were people I know well and like a lot, and people I know less well but still like, and there was lots of sitting down, which I very much enjoy. And then on Saturday night I had one of those wonderful experiences that seem to happen less and less as you get older (perhaps just because the opportunities don’t arise so often), in which someone who’s kind of on the periphery of my friendship group came and sat by the fire with me and we cracked open a couple of bottles of wine followed by some whisky. We talked all night, watched the bats flit around between the trees, heard the dawn chorus, watched the shadows gradually creeping down the walls and saw the world becoming lighter again, and then realised it was 8am and we had more in common than we’d ever have known. I disappeared off to bed for a couple of hours, emerged again at 10am for a humongous fried breakfast and spent the rest of the day in a state of exhausted bliss: that kind of tiredness where your body feels like it could melt through the floor at any moment. When you’re really tired, but for all the right reasons, and somehow it makes you more relaxed rather than winding you up in the way exhaustion so often can.

On the way home the ticket man cut the price of my train fare, and I made friends with a very cool conductor called Steve who kept me company (and kept me awake) all the way back to my stop. And now I’m home, smelling of bonfires and feeling like the world is a wonderful place, half-considering taking a shower but knowing that I’ll probably just collapse into bed for the next thirteen hours or so and hopefully emerge a full human being in the morning.

This week I read: Sacrifice by S.J. Bolton.

This week I watched: Voyager (again), The Killing.

* * *

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