I’ve been renovating my flat since I moved in four years ago. It’s not even nearly finished. It’s exhausting and exciting and all sorts of other words I can’t currently think of because my brain’s so focused on waiting for an email from the builder who came over earlier today, made a sucking noise through his teeth and gave me such a long list of things which need to happen that I can only remember about 50% of them.
It’s coming up to one of my favourite times of year. No, not Christmas; new year. The time to reflect, to look back over the past twelve months, work out what went well and what could have gone differently, and think about whether I’ve attained the goals I set out at the beginning of the year, and what my goals for next year might be.
It’s Monday morning. I wake up to the sound of seagulls screeching outside the window, sun straining through the blind.
I work for a bit, perched on the edge of the single bed in the hotel room with a bright pink laptop on my knee and my feet resting on the chair opposite, tapping out replies to emails and deciding on my Out Of Office message.
By 10am I’m on a bus through the countryside, familiar places passing by the window, invoking memories that have lain dormant since I last returned almost three years ago.