I need to create something. I feel this urge more these days. It’s quite nice, as long as I have a project on hand. Wonderful when I’m fresh and that project involves writing.

But I’m exhausted. It’s the last day of term. I’m up to date with my shopping. (For once, I remembered to buy for my husband.) The house is as decorated as it’s going to get- bar some fairy lights on the stairs. And the children are coming home for the holidays. So it’s a  whoozy, almost pleasant sort of tiredness. But I’m too tired to write.

I need to do something. I’ve some bunting to make, a nice simple task as I’ve done it before. It would be satisfying to see the result. But my sewing machine is broken.

An archeological survey of my wardrobe would probably unearth some knitting for smaller children than I have now.

It’s OK. By the time this is published it will be school pick up. I’ll think about making biscuits with the children. And after that, I’ll think about the fighting and the mess to tidy up, and realise my creative urge isn’t that strong. If I sit down with a coffee, it’ll probably go away.

 

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