Regular readers – if I still have any – may have noticed that until yesterday’s post about my back injury, I’d not written a non-bookish post since July this year when I travelled to England.
I think there are several reasons for that – part of that trip not being what I expected, work being busy and wonderful, work being busy and revolting and then the back injury… but I think I’ve perhaps lost my voice.
Eight weeks ago I fell over. It sounds so banal it screws with my head a little. But in all honesty it’s impacted on me a lot. More, in fact, than the couple of surgeries I had for my atrial fibrillation three years ago (not to mention the fact it took them six attempts with the defibrillators to bring me back).
** I found this post wallowing in my drafts folder, written on arrival in Harrogate for the Theakston Crime Writing Festival, so I’m belatedly posting it. **
I’m not exactly sure why I kept calculating the hours. Perhaps I thought I was on track for some sort of Guinness Book of Records award for number-of-hours-awake or something. Of course it’s most likely I was just feeling sorry for myself and wanted to make sure I could accurately document the travails of travel here on my site. And yes, please take a moment to acknowledge my hardship. (#firstworldproblems and all of that)
Five weeks ago I wrote a post about the fact that my holiday to England was only eight weeks away and I was yet to book anything other than my airfares and the tickets to Theakston Crime Writing Festival – which provided the impetus for me to travel.
Almost every weekend since I’ve commented on my need to organise myself – maps and TripAdvisor tabs open on my laptop. Two weeks ago a friend even held an intervention of sorts – well, Facetimed me to give me suggestions and (ahem) encourage me to book. Something. Anything. Supposedly my accommodation in York which is where I’m heading after the writing festival.
My mother lives in a nearby town about half an hour away. I stay with her one or two nights each week as my office is there and it saves me a commute or two. She’s still in my childhood home (my parents moved there just after my older brother was born). So it always feels like home.
Apparently my planned trip to England is eight weeks away. I know this because the other day I opened the Qantas app on my phone to check upcoming work travel and saw a reminder. Eek.
I’ve mentioned before I’m not a fan of holiday planning. When I went to Italy in 2018 I only made most of my bookings one month before leaving. And in the lead-up I wrote about the fact I was prevaricating rather than procrastinating, worried about making the ‘right’ decisions. Though ultimately reminded myself that any decision was better than no decisions. And in reality, given I left it so late my accommodation options were more limited than they might otherwise have been. (Although everywhere I stayed was fabulous, so regret was not an issue!)
The weirdest thing happened this past week. Well, two unfortunate things combined to become one weird – very coincidental – thing.
I have a blog post about ‘creativity’ that I apparently started writing in late January. I keep opening it, intending to finish and post it but alas… The creativity I thought I’d discuss in that post seems to fail me. So today – to FINALLY write something other than a book review – I thought I’d just write about… stuff. About life lately – as riveting as that may be.