On a weekend, I have so many things that must be done, anything that isn't a household task or mum-taxi journey needs to fit around the edges. Now I have no weekly cleaners, much of my Saturdays and Sundays to come will be spent cleaning an enormous house we don't need, cluttered with stuff no-one uses but no-one will chuck out.
Sometimes there is a rhythm and a soothing in the repetition of the routine tasks, the swoosh of the dishwasher, the slide of duster over the lid of the dark wood chest where women's hands have polished two hundred years before mine.
This weekend was different though. This weekend was set aside so I could write a piece for a new literary magazine. This is an exciting opportunity for me. It was important and it needed to be done properly, to an exacting standard. I made it very clear I would be unavailable for the carrying out of menial household tasks and ferrying about.
How fascinating it was to see that when I had an important commitment, it wasn't as important as anyone else's commitments. If I wasn't determined to take this as a life lesson, I'd have walked straight out of here this evening.
As it is, my article is written and it feels as if it's good enough (just at the moment - I don't rule out the possibility of waking up in the night and fiddling with it or indeed rewriting big chunks). I am breathing normally, nice and calm.
Because there is a bigger picture. Soon it will not be like this. Soon I will be able to make more time for the things that are important. For living, for breathing, for the girls, for my friends, for my family. And for writing.
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