The nights are starting to draw in. While cycling home from work this evening a pervasive blanket of darkness seemed to be readying it’s fall upon the world. Either that, or the bit of earth I was cycling on rotated away from the sun’s irradiating gaze. Take your pick.
I arrived home to discover our eldest had a friend from college visiting. I knew something was afoot when Miss 13 bounced into the kitchen, putting on the larger-than-life show she seems to when a new audience for her unique brand of shouted story telling presents itself.
In the kitchen my other half raced back and forth clattering saucepans and plates from one end of the kitchen to the other.
“What’s for dinner?”
There’s definitely some kind of genetic anomaly in English people related to roast dinner. As the smells of roast potatoes, carrots, chicken, yorkshire puddings, stuffing and gravy wafted through the house, the children appeared one by one to take their place at the table.
After several months taking easy meal options at home, we have cancelled everything for the foreseeable future. Repairing the bathroom ceiling has brought about the end of “Hello Fresh”, the end of “Milk & More”, and even the end of the posh razor blades I have been sent through the post for the last year. We don’t need any of it. We can’t afford “nice to have” at the moment.
I brought an end to the razor blades last month, grinning at the attempts of the Cornerstone website to make me reconsider. I’ll quite happily use disposable razors from the supermarket, rather than triple bladed chromium plated miniature weapons forged by the Dwarves of Moria.
My vanity domain name has similarly been cast aside. Given that the blog hiding behind it was only visited by a handful of people, it was another needless extravagance. The eventual landing place of my writing is still up in the air. I’ve ruminated enough about it recently. That being said, last night a good friend told me about a rather wonderful service called “Tiny Letters”. I’ll admit to being tempted by it.