This post is going to HURT. Me. Not you.
Do you actually know what it means to go out there, face your fellow men – and BEG? Don’t answer.
Yes, the season of good will. One week to go and I still haven’t procured the goose that – once upon a time – flew effortlessly, caressed by me, onto the laden table.
If anyone, ever and so smug, tells me that money doesn’t buy you happiness I’ll tell them to …
Such a happy life I believe to have led between the age of 19 and …
Now? For the last six/seven years? I don’t know. Sometimes I wish I were Virginia Woolf. I don’t mean the author. I am not given to being a writer. I love the word. I don’t need publicity. Yes, stones in your coat’s pockets and water. But, as a doctor recorded many years ago: “Won’t act on impulse on account of her son”.
Indeed. I believe all of us to be selfish to the core, yet there are limits as to what we do to others.
A fool I ain’t. The moment I committed to motherhood was the moment I realized that life wasn’t my own any more. Happy I had the guts to take the plunge.
Everything went swimmingly. Twenty four years down the line I fail. Put that into your assorted handkerchieves.