Coffee spoons are not the only the way to measure out a life. I find that hopping from one nice thing to the next, and trying to ignore the boring or bad stuff in between seems to work out ok for much of the time. The lily pads of life, perhaps.
It's harder to make this strategy work when you know it's a hell of a jump coming up from one nice thing to the next, and a long and perilous leap in between. I expect this is why I burst into tears this morning, sitting in France and knowing I was about to head back to the grim, grimy grind of the drear dark days.
Leaving the holiday from life, with the golds and rusts of the trees, the smell and the tread of soft wet leaves underfoot, the last low rays of the sun before it disappears for months - oh it was hard. Who would want to come back to all of - this?
I have been dropped off from the ferry and have already done 5 hours of work on the journey. Now I am in a Travelodge, alone (of course) and contemplating a week where I won't have a moment to get my head up.
I sometimes doubt that I will be able to see through my plan. But you know what? I've had a little rest and so I'm not ready to quit just yet. Look out world, I'm still kicking.
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