I’m feeling a tiny bit very outdone.
Sunday morning I raced to the shops very early and resembling an ancient banshee so I could sit in bed at 9am precisely to start shopping for Glastonbury tickets. 30 minutes later a tweet emerged apologising for the ticket site technical difficulties and that tickets were now actually on sale. Great. 30 minutes wasted. I spent the next 87 minutes frantically redialing and refreshing to be told all tickets are now sold. It’s surprising how stiff three pieces of toast can go in 87 minutes.
My neighbour, Sue, says it’s because we’re old. (She’s officially evil because I’m only 41- honestly!!) She says it’s because we’re not technically “with it” and that young people know the best browser to use, what device is best and which link is quickest – we’ve got no chance in our house then because I’m the most technically minded around here – I order the printer cartridges.
I want to go to Glastonbury next year with my husband. I’ve been before and I want to take him because it’s magical. Everyone should go to Glasto at least once in their lives. I feel a bit let down. A tiny bit disappointed.
So after I’d trudged up the garden to start cleaning the cats out (a bit late but they’d already been fed and loved) I started to think about all the things that I wanted to do. I want to finish writing my novel, I want to go touring round France next summer, I want to set up a new business the idea of which I had 2 years ago. I want to work for the BBC. I also want to be a great Mum; and I really want Glastonbury tickets. Now I don’t know about you but that’s only a fragment of my massive list of “I want to”s and I can feel the weight of it being pulled behind me every minute of every day. I’m ironing but really I want to be writing. I’m cleaning the bog but really I want to be cooking on an open fire. I’m hoovering hairs off the stairs but really I want to be up to my neck in mud somewhere in Somerset (not somewhere, exactly at Worthy Farm).
So where does it all stop? Where does all that guilt about not being the best at everything actually live? Is it on the pages of Facebook? (I noticed such and such has 50 million friends and I don’t even update my status – I must be boring) or the glossy leaves of RED magazine (I love RED but if I open that magazine and see the same bunch of people winning awards again I’ll scream! I make a mean lemon drizzle cake – trophy please).
This morning I worked in the cattery, mowed half the garden, walked the dog and ate beans for lunch (green types; I’m dieting) and it’s still only 11.58am.
I wash, I iron, I file away bills and I still feel bad that there’s an untidy heap on the worktop in the corner of the kitchen. I cart children to maths clubs, rugby, Cubs, Explorers, horse riding, Rainbows, swimming and the Trafford Centre and still I feel like I’m short changing my children. I’ve a BA and an MA under my belt and still have a sense that I’m not setting a good enough example. Why?
Because for lots of different reasons we don’t value our triumphs. Only our dreams. We belittle our achievements and worship the objects of our frustrations. Why? Because we focus intently on the whispers around us instead of the music in our hearts. I refuse to feel ashamed because my kitchen floor needs mopping and my kids don’t go on an annual ski holiday.
Some people would love to run a cattery and live in a picture box cottage in Cheshire (tick). Some people would die for the chance of one child let alone three perfect ones (tick). Not everybody meets their soulmate (tick) and finally, most people haven’t cooked stew on an open fire and slugged Jack Daniels from the bottle in the middle of a force 7 gale 3 metres from the North Sea (tick).
So excuse me; not wanting to be rude. I’m off to write the next chapter of my novel with a cup of cha and the promise of pizza for tea; and as I’m passing the unsightly heap in the kitchen I’ll cover it neatly with my best tea towel.
See you next time xx