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gloriously doing my own thing

The summer has been a blur. Weekends full of events, evenings full of work.  I had a eight days off and it couldn’t have come soon enough. I spent more than half of it sorting out my life, my falling down house and tackling what will hence forth be known as ‘the jungle garden’ (I hate knot weed. Just for the record).

Things are now back under control. And it’s nice. I’m actually enjoying my own home for the first time. Like it’s mine. I’ve put photos on the walls and everything. I’ve stamped it. Finally. Yep. Nice.

Odd how it’s taken me until now to realise that I actually like my own company. Like I needed to be so insanely crazily manically busy for the penny to drop. Getting home to find the house empty is a delicious relief. I’d rather be here by myself. It’s going to take someone pretty damn amazing to make me want to share my space again (housemates don’t count as they have their own bedroom, okay?).

I’ve been craving writing. Creative stuff generally actually. I’ve been playing my saxophone again and managed to work out all the notes to ‘Girl from Ipanema’ the other day. Lush. I’ve found a book on photoshop that actually makes sense to a normal person. I’ve been making earings for my friends’ birthdays. And music. Rediscovering the songs that make me happy. And playing them. Loud. Just because I can.

And there’s been some moments that have just made my soul soar and a grin spread across my face: a compliment from a stranger (female incidently: “I love your outfit” – we were at Newmarket Races for my birthday – “is it all vintage?” like seriously, do I look that fucking cool?!); realising that the background music at Delizia Cafe in Baldock where I’m sipping my little coffee and nibbling on tiny breakfast cornetti isn’t a cd at all, but a man sat behind me gently plucking notes out of his acoustic guitar; sitting – on a Ryan Air flight – to Knock, Co Mayo pissing myself laughing – out loud – on a Ryan Air flight – because the book I’m reading is so shitting funny that I can’t help myself and wiping tears from my eyes as I tell the intrigued lady next to me that it’s called ‘The Tent, The Bucket, And Me’ by Emma Kennedy and that she has to read it because it’s the funniest book in the world and here I am – on a Ryan Air flight – unable to hold the gravity defying gaffaws inside; lying back on a beach of  the Inishkea Islands in Co Mayo and doing nothing, not a god damn thing (it’s an art I’m told) and then noticing a galloping stallion in the clouds, nostrils flaring, neck arching, mane curling into the blue sky.

I am gloriously doing my own thing. And I’m pretty fucking cool. Clearly. After all, I wear (what looks like) vintage.


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