of broken plates and scottish accents

Today I am glum, miserable and achingly gloomy. I feel heavy with weight, from the piles of work that surround me to the knowledge that I have to empty the dishwasher, a task which today seems insurmountable. I long for my duvet, to curl up, close my itchy eyes and let sleep wash over me. I long to nestle on my soft brown leather sofas, which of course have not yet arrived, thick socks pulled on and blankets on my knees with a pot of Earl Grey and an Agatha Christie. I long to be sat by an open fire, watching the sparks light up the chimney breast like miniature fireworks, breathing in the wood smoke and listening to nothing but the crackle and pop of the sap.

All these things seem so far removed from the dullness of my desk. Another day spent before it, bleak and utilitarian and offering up nothing to nudge my imagination. The chair makes my back uncomfortable and hunched, the table is cluttered with piles of applications that I can’t store anywhere else. And to listen to me roll off this catalogue of complaints is only exacerbating the glumness.

To make matters worse, my lovely new John Lewis plates have just arrived, and three out of four have been smashed into pieces on their way here. Fortunately I spoke to a lovely man, with a delicious Scottish accent named Kenneth (although in my head he is definitely Hamish) and a replacement set are on their way.

Oh for four o’clock when I can return home and bury myself under blankets and duvets and shut out the day until I am recovered enough from this misery to venture forth, in my new skirt and boots, to Gars with my boy. For most of all, today I want my boy.