When you know that 'bedtime' signals the start of a week of holidays, bedtime takes a blooming long time to come. Suddenly 8.30pm seems very late for a 6 year old; he looks tired, maybe he should go earlier...and 2 minutes is just extravagant for tooth brushing, that's enough, come on now... But it did finally arrive, and I whooped off to Republique for dinner with the girls; should have had the burger, but I don't even mind as I am so buoyed by the thought of child-free days and nights, and- probably- the wine.
As long as the weather keeps its promise and the sun bakes down over the weekend, I plan to picnic, and not very much else. On Monday I will hunker down and work on my TEFL course (rain is forecast), paint, and perhaps even play my cello. And cook! In a real kitchen, with normal sized pans and more than one hob (My host family are holidaying: I'll have the run of their flat). I shall feel like a queen in a castle. Maybe. Maybe I'll become the opposite of claustrophobic and want to come back here and hide in my 5 square metres of turpentine-infused comfort.
Either way, no work for a week can't be bad.
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