This one’s whipped by in a happy frenzy of work-related productivity.
That’s not even sarcasm: I actually like my job. I still have to pinch myself sometimes. I spent so many years in an industry I actively disagreed with, doing a job I hated myself for, that I can barely believe I’m finally free of it and spending my days being paid to do things I enjoy.
When I was a teenager, Mozart’s Laudate Dominum was the only piece I could play on the piano that wasn’t something I’d made up. It had the dual advantage of being fun to play and also good to sing, and although I’ve long forgotten how to play it (something I intend to rectify), I do sometimes like to belt it out in my living room.
On Saturday, my ukulele and I went to Brighton for the day. I hadn’t busked there in at least a year (probably longer), and I’d never done it with a ukulele. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but it went OK.
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.