Every night I sleep disastisfied, knowing that another blog post goes unwritten. But it's my birthday and I'm allowed to do what I want. Today's to-do's go in pending.
Forty eight is a satisfying number. Balanced. Grown up. Steady. Is that really me? Can I identify with being 48?
Existential questions worry me.
Should flip-flops still be my main footware in the summer? When will I feel at home in lipstick and high heels? At what stage do I buy a bata? And why do I jump out of bed in the morning thinking of a new tool I'm trying out, or a new project scheme, and forget to do last night's washing up?
Maybe this year will be more on target. Balanced. Grown up. Steady. This year that's going to be me.