I’ll add that to my list shall I?

I’ll be honest and admit that being off work for so long has been driving me crazy. As any of you who know me in real life will testify to, I’m a workaholic. I love being busy, and will never do just one thing at a time if there is the possibility of doing more. I’m never happier than when I have the opportunity to make lists. Lists are my life! How did anyone ever survive without them?

By week four, despite my sleep problems getting worse, I am finally able to read normally again, and am starting to think that I should maybe have shares in Amazon. I’ve been spending a lot of time on Ravelry and the lovely ladies over there are more than happy to point you in the direction of yet another vampire book series. It seems that there is no end to the paranormal romance phenomenom, and just like life it comes in all shapes and sizes. No matter what you’re in the mood for, you can find a supernatural book to suit you.

Whether it’s the sex and violence of J.R Ward’s Black Dagger Brotherhood, Kelley Armstrong’s strong women, or the Bridget Jones-esque antics of Katie McAlister’s heroines, there is quite literally something for everyone. I’m loving nearly all of them, as my moods these days are as quick to change as the capricious British weather, and thanks to having a dicky ticker, I still have no life to speak of.

The lists this week have been more about cleaning than fun things. My mum is arriving this evening to lend some moral support. She’s going to go with me later in the week to see the specialist, and I get the feeling she is planning on kicking ass while she is at it. Like me, mum has had enough of indecision and lack of answers. I’m so pleased she’s going to be with me, but her arrival means that I’ve had to tidy the flat.

My flat is generally clean, but I just don’t do tidy. Why keep putting something away when you’re going to use it again in an hour or two or even a day or two? It’s not like you’re tripping over things, or that I’m hoarding newspapers from 50 years ago. I’m not even as bad as an old flatmate who used to keep bags of rubbish in his room. No matter though, when family or friends arrive, we have this urge to tidy and clean and put on a show. Why aren’t we happy to be ourselves? Why can’t we assume that our loved ones will accept us for who we are and the way we like to live? So I’ve decided that this is the last time. If you want to judge me by the way I live fine, but I’m going to be me. From now on, y’all will just have to take me as you find me.