When Fanf and I have an evening to ourselves, or when I get time during the day to myself I often feel I have to make it count. I'm not entirely sure what I mean by this. That I have to have the kind of unforgettable experiences that will define me as a human being? That I have to find an activity interesting enough to write about in this little space? That I have to do something useful, energetic, mind, body and soul enhancing? I never feel guilty about having some much-wanted Fanf and Bex time or some much-needed solitude but I do feel guilty for not spending it wisely.
Pah to that.
Yesterday we scattered our children to the winds. Well, one to Tantine Steph's to be with the other five cousins and one, unexpectedly, to the grandspoilers. Thus we were suddenly presented with a night en amoureux. Grand plans flashed through my brain. And then we decided to go and see a bit of good crap at the cinema and afterwards head to the pub for a pint. Neither memorable nor enhancing of anything except my nascent beer belly but making it count is not what counts. Being happy is what counts.
Likewise today (slightly worse for wear), having done what passes for a weekly clean round these parts I was faced with hours of freedom in front of me and grand plans flashed through my brain. And then I decided to call a few friends, read my book, and ogle some cake recipes. Oh, and write a blog post. None of which can really be considered to have counted towards anything much at all. Except perhaps, in a humble and lowly way, towards my general sense of well-being.
That's grand. A well being doth a happy heart of a home make.