My writing used to be so much better than it is now. Well crafted posts. Explorations of thoughts and experiences, wrapped in a literary style that I’ve lost somewhere along the way.
Perhaps it is time to reclaim some of it. The ability must be lurking somewhere in the depths of my head – no doubt forgotten beneath a pile of boxes labelled “work”, “chores”, “children”, and “what everybody expects of me”.
This writing lark requires effort though – and effort usually requires a reason. What reason might I use as an excuse for the investment of effort? I don’t really have a mission – I just write because I like writing. I don’t particularly write for an audience either – hell, I don’t really know who my audience is outside of a few disparate friends spread around the world.
As is usual, I have no idea where this post is going. While writing it the washing machine and tumble dryer are rumbling away, and the house is remarkably quiet for a change – a somewhat different situation than I found when I got home from work.
I discovered Miss 14 standing in the kitchen having a disaster of sorts – her school blazer covered in flour, the cooker covered in some sort of batter mixture, and pots, pans, spoons, plates, and dirty cutlery spread across all of the worktops.
A recipe had not been followed properly – an awful lot of ingredients had been wasted, and there were not enough to start again. After the realisation of her situation dawned on her, she began ranting about anything and everything before stamping off up the stairs towards her bedroom – which of course solves everything.
It’s not the end of the world. Her school blazer is in the tumble dryer right now, and the kitchen has been cleaned from top to bottom. You might never know that anything had ever gone wrong – well – unless you read this of course.