This week marks six months of living alone… well not exactly, but also kinda. I share a house with five other people. We cross paths in the kitchen, politely ignore each other’s laundry, and share an unspoken agreement that we don’t discuss the quality of bathroom singing.
It’s not solitude exactly, more like a soft coexistence.
The Middle Ground
After nearly twenty years of living with partners and kids and noise, this has been my quiet middle ground. I still hear footsteps, laughter, the occasional blender. It’s reassuring. There’s life here, just not mine to manage.
I’m probably the oldest person in the house by a good stretch. Everyone else has energy that hums, it’s just a different frequency. One I can admire from a time worn path.
I joke that I’m the household cryptid: sightings are rare, but the evidence of my existence (mugs, tea, the occasional scent of toast) is undeniable. But I make the joke only to myself, gods forbid I engage in conversation… I have a spooky reputation to maintain.
The Comfort
It’s oddly comforting. I can be social on my own terms and vanish without explanation. There’s no loneliness in it, just the small luxury of choosing my own volume.
Six months in, I’ve realised this is the kind of independence that suits me. Not isolation, not reinvention, just steady, ordinary living.
The Aggressively Peaceful Bit
There’s something deeply satisfying about being a quiet part of other people’s world. The house hums. The lights shift. Someone else’s playlist seeps through the walls. And I’m here making coffee, answering messages from my people, and feeling, finally, at home.
Because peace doesn’t always come with silence. Sometimes it’s the sound of someone else’s blender at 7 a.m. and the soft, defiant joy of knowing you’re building a life that’s aggressively peaceful.
Adventures are thrilling, but they’re also loud. For now, I’m choosing the softer kind of noise: kettles boiling, washing machines humming, toast crunching…
The Highs
August was incredible. Big trips, bright moments, the kind of days that deserve capital letters: The Fringe. The Theme Park. The New Head Office.
There were late nights and loud mornings, too many people crammed into too little space, gig timetables that felt like puzzles and the dizzying joy of being somewhere that wasn’t my own room. Chaos at its finest.
But here’s the truth: they’ve also wrung me out. Amazing, yes. Exhausting, absolutely.
The Craving
Now, all I want is routine. The boring kind. The quiet kind. The kind where I know what Monday looks like, where Tuesday isn’t a surprise party, and where the biggest decision of the week is whether I eat pasta or rice for dinner.
Give me predictable mornings. Coffee in the same mug, at the same table, at the same time and not having to remember what loyalty app I should be using. Give me getting all my chores done by Thursdays, so that knitting on the sofa comes stress-free on Fridays, and all without having to calculate train times and Uber journeys.
Routine is knowing when the bins go out. It’s having a go-to mug for Monday mornings and that the only Friday night outfit I’ll need is a sports bra and gym leggings. It’s deciding how many episodes of Alien: Earth I can rewatch before bed without sabotaging the next day. It’s the hum of the washing machine. The kettle clicking off, steady as a metronome. The too-bright supermarket lights that feel oddly comforting, in the same way that everything in the rest of the supermarket is just where you expect it to be.
The Balance
Chaos is brilliant. It’s also loud. It demands too much, too often. Adventure is a drum solo: dazzling, thrilling, impossible to ignore. Routine is the rhythm section underneath, steady and grounding. The part that makes the music work.
I sat at my desk the other day and realised what I wanted wasn’t another adventure. It was a week where the most dramatic moment was the Google reminder for me to get my laundry out of the dryer.
The Rest
So yes, I’ve had some amazing weekends.
But right now? I want a week where nothing happens. Where the highlight is an empty laundry basket or a perfectly buttered piece of toast. Where the biggest problem is I’ve run out of almond milk or the butter being too cold to spread.
Maybe that’s the secret: adventure isn’t special without the contrast. The parties, the trips, the chaos, they need routine to bounce against.
I’ll take boredom while it lasts. Fireworks always find their way back in, whether I ask for them or not.
On favourite cafes, small rituals and the quests that begin with a cup in hand.
The Nearest Cup
My favourite coffee shop isn’t just the closest, though that helps. It’s genuinely good. It sits a few minutes from my front door, right by the train station, perfectly placed between home and the town centre. I like to think I chose it for the beans or the vibe, but the truth is simpler: it’s on the way, and it’s there when I need it.
The Atmosphere
From the outside, it doesn’t look like much. A handful of tables, a cute mirror sign, the steady shuffle of people coming and going. But it has its own rhythm. You hear the roll of suitcase wheels on the pavement, the chatter of office staff escaping their cubicles, the run club on some Saturday morning. The hiss of the steam wand cutting through it all, like they’re trying to take us back to the golden age of train travel. And inside, time does slow down just enough. Long enough to take a breath, to sip, to watch the world hurry past without you.
The Coffee Itself
And the coffee? It’s good. Not just good-for-a-train-station, but actually good. Smooth espresso shots, that taste like someone cared about getting it right. It’s the kind of place you could recommend to a friend and not have to apologize afterwards. Which makes it even better that it’s mine: close enough to be casual, but good enough to feel like a treat.
And then there are the pastries. Real pastries, not the sad shrink-wrapped kind that taste like regret. I’m talking about almond croissants dusted with sugar, the kind that leave a little trail of flakes across the table like edible confetti. Pair one with a cup and suddenly errands feel like indulgence. Coffee in one hand, pastry in the other and even I will concede the day doesn’t look half as daunting.
The Ritual
What I love most is that this place has become my starting line. The stop that marks the beginning of whatever comes next. Some days it’s just errands, other days it’s train journeys or something bigger, but the coffee is always the ritual that kicks it off.
It’s my Rivendell of coffee: a pause before the quest. Sometimes I’m off to the Undying Lands, sometimes I’m trudging toward Mordor, but either way, I start here . A cup in hand and the sense that at least I’m equipped for whatever’s coming. And sometimes it’s not just me. Sometimes there’s a council. A friend across the table, a small circle of confidence before we set off. Not quite the Council of Elrond, but close enough. Plans are made, jokes are shared, and for a moment the world feels steady. And when it doesn’t? Well, someone will loan me an axe.
Closing Sip
It’s not the best coffee I’ve ever had, that title still belongs to some rainy day in Wellington, memory-polished and unreachable, but it’s the best coffee I can get today. And that matters more. Because this place doesn’t just hand me caffeine; it hands me a beginning. A reason to keep moving.
Author’s Note: This post was inspired by Maya Angelou’s poem “When I Think About Myself.” Her words come from a history and an experience that aren’t mine, but what resonated with me was her use of laughter as both armor and confession. What follows is my own reflection, a much smaller, messier version of that rhythm. About the ways I hide grief behind jokes. I hope you find something of yourself here too, whether it’s in the laughter, the grief, or the space in between.
The Spark
I read Maya Angelou’s poem “When I Think About Myself” and feel my chest tighten with recognition. I read it again, and it still catches in my throat. I read it today and it still fucking stings. Her laughter isn’t my laughter. Her history isn’t mine, but I know what it is to laugh so the crying doesn’t swallow you whole. My version is smaller, messier, less tethered to survival and more to shame. Still, the rhythm is familiar: joke first, grief hiding underneath.
My Version of the Laughter
I tell my therapist things that sound like jokes. Like: “My sleep schedule isn’t broken, it’s just… creatively curated.” Or: “My morning routine lasted three days, which is actually a personal best.” She smiles, makes a note, and I try to move on, hopeful that I’ve kept it light.
But here’s the thing: I’m not really joking. (And my therapist knows that.) The jokes are just camouflage. They’re how I confess without admitting it.
It’s easier to laugh about my abandoned planners than to say I grieved the person I thought those planners could make me. It’s easier to make a crack about my Fitbit than to say I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever feel “normal.”
The laughter buys me just enough air to speak the truth, but only sideways… like I’m trying not to look it in the eye.
The Weight Underneath
The truth is, the laughter only stretches so far. Underneath it, there’s the ache of all the things I thought I’d outgrow by now: the scattered thoughts, the empty lists, the absolute fury at existing in the world, in general everything just being so fucking complicated.
I open an old planner and find week one filled with neat handwriting, hopeful doodles in the margins. Week two is patchy. Week three doesn’t exist. The book itself is heavier than it should be, not because of the paper, but because of the failure I’ve stapled to it.
It’s funny, in a bleak way, how much stationery can resemble a gravestone. Every notebook is a headstone for another version of me who didn’t make it. Another try at order, another attempt at “normal,” buried under tabs and trackers.
And that’s the part that stings most: I thought I was chasing productivity. What I was really chasing was proof I wasn’t broken.
Why It Resonates
That’s why Angelou’s poem lingers with me. She writes about laughter with a weight I can’t claim. Her survival isn’t mine to borrow. But the cadence of it … that rhythm of laughing to cover the pain, that part I know in my fucking bones.
Because every time I make a joke out of my mess, what I’m really saying is: “This hurts. This scares me. I don’t know how else to tell you.”
I can’t carry the weight she carried, but I can recognize the shape of my own.
There’s a pile of them on my shelves: passion planners, diaries, bullet journals, colour-coded agendas, Italian leather ones, Japanese ones from before they changed the paper. A graveyard of productivity promises.
I used to believe that if I just found the right one, the perfect notebook, I’d finally unlock my life. I’d become the kind of person who shows up on time, never loses track of deadlines, and doesn’t panic when someone casually asks, “So what’s your five-year plan?”
Crisp pages. Neat lines. Tabs for goals and dreams. The stationery version of a miracle cure.
I bought them all. Dotted notebooks. Lined notebooks. Planners that could probably manage a small government. Each one promised that this time, no really this time, I’d get my shit together.
The Imaginary Me
The perfect notebook was never just about pages and ink. It was about the imaginary neurotypical me I thought I was buying. The version of me who thrives on structure. Who remembers birthdays. Who completes her Self Assessment on time.
Capitalism sold me the fantasy. Pinterest boards sold me the aesthetic. Productivity blogs sold me the idea that my messy brain was just waiting for the right planner. 1990s mental health services backed them up.
She was supposed to be in there, hidden under the chaos, ready to be summoned by a 12-week goal tracker.
Spoiler: she never showed up.
What I Got Instead
What I actually got was:
Half-filled pages.
Colour-coded calendars abandoned after week two.
Expensive washi tape dots that stick to everything except the page you meant.
A cupboard that looks less like a productivity system and more like the stationery aisle of WH Smith exploded.
I wasn’t building a better version of me. I was building a stationery mausoleum.
Quantified Self
It wasn’t just notebooks either. I flirted with the whole Quantified Self movement. Habit trackers and bujos whispering that if I just paid attention to myself for more than 24 seconds, I’d finally see that commitment could make me a real person.
Pair it with a Fitbit.
Team up with a Nike+ FuelBand.
Add a Garmin to my wrist.
An app buzzing on my phone at hourly intervals. All of them promising that if I could log enough data points … steps, calories, sleep, water, moods, what colour my hair was… I’d be unstoppable.
Spoiler: I remained very stoppable.
What I actually ended up with was a drawer full of obsolete gadgets because I’d lost the proprietary charger, three abandoned apps that I’d only remember when the recurring subscription charges left my bank account, and the growing suspicion that the only thing I was really tracking was my ability to fail in new formats.
The Grief
And here’s the part I didn’t expect: I still grieve her. That imaginary version of me. The tidy, consistent person I was told I could become with enough grit, discipline, and neon highlighters.
It’s something that’s come up a lot in counselling lately. Grief and Anger.
The Grief of realising I’ve spent decades chasing someone I could never be. The Anger at how long I believed it, how easily the promise was sold to me.
Capitalised because they’re like the characters from an animated movie, driving me onwards to be handed off to the next stage in the relay race of emotions. These are just the first two in a seven character montage. Available soon in a limited edition Funko Pop set.
It hits in small, sharp ways. The sting of old photos where I still looked optimistic, still thought I’d find my way into “normal.” The ache of more recent ones where the exhaustion is written across my face. That me is suffering under the quiet heaviness of all those empty planners, each one insisting I list my “Top 3 tasks for the day” while my brain shrugged and said “Not today Satan.” Too many empty lists wearing heavy on the soul.
Letting that mythical version of me go feels like admitting defeat. Like giving up on the life that was supposed to be waiting just around the corner, if only I tried harder. If only I could use the perfect planner for four whole weeks.
It’s absurd, grieving someone who never existed.
But it’s real. I spent decades chasing her. Longer than my marathon career ever lasted.
What’s Left
So here I am. Surrounded by half-used notebooks, still inconsistent, still messy, still me. I don’t have the imaginary life I was promised, and I’m still figuring out how to stop mourning it.
But maybe the first step is admitting it: that version of me… She isn’t dead. She was never real.
And maybe the second step is laughing about it. Because if I don’t, I’ll just end up buying another notebook for the mausoleum.
So I ask you to please respect my privacy at this difficult time. The funeral will be a small private service for family and accountability buddies only. Afterwards, we’ll lay her to rest among the others in the mausoleum, the planners, the apps, the gadgets … a whole graveyard of good intentions. And maybe that’s okay.
Maybe it’s time to stop haunting the cemetery and just start living in the mess.
I’ve drunk more bad coffee than good, but I’ve never turned down a cup.
The Worst Coffee
When my local Krispy Kreme opened they handed me a cup of what can only be described as caffeinated despair. Burn shots of coffee poured over the water of disappointment. I didn’t complain, obviously, I just drank it and ate my donut. I even went back, just to see if I had been wrong, like it was some sort of Emperors New Clothes trick.
I left the second time absolutely aghast that somewhere could make coffee that was so bad, even I hated it. But I still drank it. Because having bad coffee in hand is still better than having nothing. Lynch knew.
The Best Coffee
On the other end of the spectrum sits Mr Bun’s Bakery, a café in Wellington, New Zealand where I had the best coffee of my life. It was a rainy day, the coffee was the right temperature, the sounds of Wellington just hit the right tempo, and it was just perfect.
Shhh. Just for a moment. Let me remember. FUCK.
I doubt I remember the actual coffee correctly these days. It was more than 20 years ago. If you’ve ever been to Mr Bun’s Bakery in Wellington, New Zealand you’re probably confused at how it’s the best coffee of my life. But every cup since has been chasing that high, and none of them have even come close. It hasn’t stopped me trying though.
Why I Keep Drinking It Anyway
Here’s the thing: it’s not just about taste. I didn’t describe the roast or the altitude the beans were grown at. What the mix of Arabica and Robusta was. Did I get a flat white, or a doppio? Did that matter?
For years I thought I just loved coffee. I’ve worked in coffee chains, opened my own coffee shop. In one place I worked you could plot the times I was away from the location by the change in the amount of beans used in that week. My coffee consumption literally tracked by the kilogram.
Turns out, I was probably self-medicating undiagnosed ADHD with americanos and loyalty cards. Coffee helped me focus. It gave me a ritual. It gave my restless hands something to do and my restless brain something to cling to.
The weirdest part? I’ve never had a caffeine withdrawal headache in my life. Not once. Apparently my nervous system just accepted that coffee is part of the package deal. Superpower, or giant red flag? Hard to tell.
Ritual Over Quality
Good or bad, coffee is less about flavour and more about existence. It’s a prop. A crutch. Proof of life. Even the worst cup can trick my brain into thinking I’m at least doing something.
So yes, I’ll complain. I’ll roll my eyes at the sludge in my cup. But I’ll still drink it. Because god forbid I sit here with nothing in my hands but my thoughts.
Closing Sip
Even bad coffee is better than no coffee at all.” – David Lynch
I’m fortunate these days that I don’t have to go to Krispy Kreme for coffee, my children don’t need to be bribed with donuts when we go to the city center. There are many great places to get coffee within a short walk, but non of them are Mr Bun’s Bakery.
“First you need to take the yarn in your right hand…“
I didn’t go to a class, or learn from a wise relative passing down ancient yarn secrets. I learned to knit from YouTube — which means my teachers were mostly disembodied hands with suspiciously good manicures.
I was pregnant with my first child, and I wanted to make a baby blanket. It’s so cliche it cool. The blanket was simple, except I choose to do colourwork too, because I can’t possibly start with something plain. It was finished before my baby was born, but did not survive contact with the babies dad putting it directly into the washing machine. Wool on a regular wash. Dear Reader, I cried.
Somehow, despite the destruction of my first finished item, I’m actually pretty good at it. My stitches are neat. My tension’s solid. I’ve tackled socks, lace, different types of colourwork. All the things that make non-knitters look at you like you’ve just solved a maths equation in your head, no problem mate, done it.
The Strange Fate of Finished Objects
Here’s the thing though: I rarely wear or keep anything I make. I can knit a pair of socks that fit perfectly, and then hand them over to someone else like they’re a disposable coffee cup. Scarves, hats, mittens — they all wander off to other people’s wardrobes, while mine remains conspicuously empty of anything I’ve actually made.
The four finished items* in the photo at at the top, all completed in 2024, all about to go off to other people this month**. One will be a birthday gift for someone’s mum, another sent further north to keep a neck warm, one posted onwards to decorate the back of an armchair, and the last to a teenager who is just excited to get a handmade item.
Why Knitting Stuck (When Other Things Didn’t)
There’s something about the rhythm of it that works on my brain in a way most “self-care” activities don’t.
Running collapsed under the weight of one very soggy marathon. Journaling can be as much a way to blame myself for things, as it is a way to off load things that are eating up my mental RAM. And stretching? That’s just me having an argument with my hips***.
But knitting? Knitting sticks. Even when I put it down for months, I always pick it back up, and it always feels like coming back to something useful.
Not Quite Useful, But Definitely Mine
It doesn’t “heal” me. It doesn’t “fix” me. But it does give my restless hands something to do, and my restless mind a puzzle to chew on. There’s a similar metronome of movement that I once found in running, giving me a small pocket of quiet in my brain. It fends off the existential dread with a mantra of “knit, knit, purl.”
Not all hobbies have to be deep and meaningful. Sometimes it’s just loops of yarn and a bit of distraction, and that’s enough.
So yes, I’m self-taught, I’m good at it, and yet my drawers are mostly full of yarn waiting for it’s moment rather than finished objects… because god forbid I ever keep something nice for myself.****
*Yes, two of those finished items are crochet. Don’t be picky.
**No, I’ve not sold them. I don’t need to make money of this, and to be honest the admin of someone covering the cost of the yarn is simply not something I give a fuck about. You like the item? Great. Take it. Enjoy.
***The second child caused that hip problem. I knit them a blanket too. It was much simpler than the first one I made, but did have a cute hood.
****This is probably something I need to think more about.
I didn’t realise at the time, but I was starting my last marathon attempt. It was not my first long run. It was not my first marathon. But it was the last time I purposefully went running.
My previous marathon had been through my birth town. There were crowds, familiar scenery, and reasonable weather despite being on the coast. At the end I cried, some enthusiastic folks gave me my medal and a banana, and they ushered me towards a spot where someone took my photo. (The photo turned out to be very expensive, and I looked terrible in it.) But photography aside, I liked it enough to sign up for another marathon 3 years later.
And now we’re up to date for this story.
Thirteen years ago I started a marathon in my home town. I was excited, and I had trained reasonably well. I was never going to be a fast marathon runner, or in the top percentiles for any age bracket. I wasn’t chasing bling, it was always just a personal thing. Less than 1% of the population complete a marathon. It’s the only 1% I’ll ever qualify for.
But on the day, the weather was horrible. It shouldn’t have been surprising really. The location was once known as “the wettest city in England.” The drizzle was despicable, cold and unending. In stark contrast to my previous marathon, through a city, filled with people, this one fairly quickly went out of town and into the countryside.
The Lancashire countryside is vast and beautiful, but the sheep did not care for the 1650 folks who were foolish enough to want to run long distances on a wet day. The cows were not interested if this was a difficult run or not.
There are, I think, different types of folk who run marathons. There are those who are there to compete, either against people around them, or themselves. The time, the pace is important. It is a race after all.
And then there are those who are there for the experience. They have trained, just like the other folks, but there is less concern about time, and more about completion. I am one of these people. The overall experience for me was misery.
I think it was somewhere around mile twenty one where the first aiders pulled up beside me. I must have looked terrible. Worse even than the expensive finishers photo from my last marathon. I must have sounded terrible too, because I couldn’t even remember my date of birth, or my age.
So that was it. My last marathon. My heroic finale: shuffled off the course by first aiders, wrapped in tin foil like leftovers, and chauffeured across the finish line in a van. Not quite the epic tale of endurance I’d imagined.
And honestly? I let that day kill running and writing in one go. I failed at one hobby, so obviously my brain decided I wasn’t allowed to enjoy the other. Very rational. Top-tier coping strategies.
Thirteen years later, I haven’t run a single marathon. No half marathons, 10k or parkruns. No running anywhere unless it was across a convention center with XLR leads. But here I am, writing again. Because apparently I needed over a decade to recover from typing about exercise. Olympic-level procrastination.
So no, this isn’t some grand running comeback. There’s no training plan. No redemption arc, or even an inspiring 80s montage. It’s just me, finally admitting that one bad day doesn’t have to be the last word.
And if it took me thirteen years to figure that out… well, at least I’m consistent.
I started this blog as I was starting to run marathons. It was, at the time, a blissful way to leave things behind and get some quite. Making myself a plodding metronome of forward motion, like a physical kind of meditation, coupled with leaving technology behind. Running for the quiet. The last marathon I ran was a wet miserable affair 13 years ago. I pretty much never ran again after that weekend.
This month has been a different kind of marathon.
It started with a week off, which, to be clear, was not “restful.” It recharged my will to live, but was not restful. When I was at my lowest mental health point, I used to test myself. I’d travel to a place I liked, and see how long I would stay there before I headed back to “real life.” A weird kind of “chicken” with myself and my reality. I know it doesn’t make sense, I’ve explained it in therapy and it still doesn’t make sense.
On my week off I went back to these places, I think to use it as a way to calibrate my current mental health status. But also to remind myself that at some point I loved going to other cities or towns, looking at art, visiting yarn shops and drinking coffee in nice places. These were things I enjoyed at one time, and became stained grey with depression. Some trips were better than others. I found that, once I’d given myself permission to arrive and leave on my own schedule, there was enjoyment in these excursions. It felt like a restoration of my soul, but not a rest for my body.
Then came the Fringe. Four days of crowds, shows, and the peculiar energy of Edinburgh in August. It’s part inspiration, part overstimulation, and all of it while walking up cobblestone hills. It was brilliant, chaotic and exhausting. There’s a special guilt I enjoy here, I went to Fringe, for work, and I’m complaining about it. It was amazing. It was exhausting. Both of these things can be true at the same time.
And just when I thought I might catch my breath, I was off again, this time for a head office trip. A different kind of busy, where my day was full of talking and planning, building furniture to upgrade our office space, discussing stats and comparing years of data, and I get back to my hotel room wondering if I remembered to drink any water at all.
So now it’s Bank Holiday weekend, and for once, I’m not going anywhere. No train tickets. No suitcase. No itinerary. Just my personal space, a pile of laundry, and the rare opportunity to actually be quiet.
The thing is, quiet isn’t always easy. Busy feels natural. Busy looks productive. Busy means I don’t have to stop and check in with myself. Sitting still, on the other hand, feels suspicious. I must be doing it wrong? Wasting time? Or missing out on something?
But I think that’s exactly why I need it. This weekend isn’t about catching up, or being productive, or even “recovering.” It’s about stopping. About remembering that sitting still has value, even if it doesn’t look impressive on a calendar or in a photo.
Maybe I’ll knit, because at least then my restless hands have something to do. Maybe I’ll stretch my hips and pretend that counts as yoga. Maybe I’ll finally read something that isn’t on a screen. Or maybe I’ll just stare into space and call it meditation. Whatever shape it takes, I want this weekend to feel unapologetically small.
Because if this month has been about movement, then this weekend is about stillness. And honestly, stillness feels like the harder thing to choose.
So here’s to a Bank Holiday spent doing less, aggressively. I might have stopped running marathons, but I’m still chasing the Quiet.
Not because I was out living some glamorous life but because Alien Earth dropped and apparently I have zero impulse control when it comes to streaming sci-fi. I was going to try and nap in the early evening, but I’m just really bad at napping. Which, when you consider I’m over 40, is just unfair.
But now it’s the next day, and I’m on the floor doing hip and ankle stretches, questioning every life choice that led me here. My body feels like it’s made entirely of knots and bad decisions. My brain is still somewhere in deep space. My coffee is just out of reach.
Stretching like this always makes me feel a bit ridiculous. The movements are slow, awkward, and very much not cool person material. But here’s the thing: I need it. My ankles have the mobility of a stubborn Victorian door hinge, and my hips did not enjoy pregnancy fifteen years ago and just won’t stop reminding me. If I don’t keep moving them, they will absolutely stage a rebellion.
So I keep going. Leaning, twisting, holding. Leaning, rotating, stumbling. Leaning, stretching, swearing.
It’s not glamorous, it’s not fast, and it’s definitely not going on an 80s workout montage. And when I finally stand up, I feel a little better, a little more human, not smug enough to justify last night’s sci-fi binge. But at least I did it.
Will I go to bed earlier next time? Absolutely not. We might just have to resign ourselves to the fact that I’ll be awake at one in the morning every Wednesday for the next 7 weeks.
But I’ll stretch again tomorrow. Consider it my way of negotiating peace between my passions and my joints.
