Monday, 7 November 2011
The Day After The Party
The party was a strange affair where people drank champagne, laughed too loudly, said mean things with a smile to amuse a room, talked about themselves and their accomplishments and assumed that the rest of the world was impressed.
And throughout it all I smiled and drank and laughed along, whilst feeling exhausted and uncomfortable and inadequate.
Because I don't have a closet hung with cocktail dresses, I don't live in a Georgian manor house in the country, I won't be employing two and a half thousand people next summer, I haven't spent hundreds of pounds on Olympic tickets, I haven't been to Sierra Leone or South Africa or India or Vietnam, I've not had dinner with Tony Blair, I've not been introduced to the Queen; I won't be going skiing this winter and I'm not funny or witty or clever in the sort of way that you'd notice.
My life's not interesting or impressive or important.
It's a simple life where I wake up on a Monday morning and cuddle my boy in bed. I wash the blackened Pyrex dish and smile when it sparkles; I let a tired little boy watch cartoons in his pyjamas; I meet up with friends whom I love and tell them that their babes are beautiful; I make my boy beans on toast for lunch and then gently wash his orange face; I gather yet more apples from the grass beneath our tree and I make a jug of apple juice; I sit in silence as John sleeps and remind myself of the beauty of the world; I cook and clean and shop; I sing my boy lullabies before bed; I weave my thoughts into a blog post and I go to bed happy.
It's just a little life, it's not changing the world and it doesn't translate well into dinner party chatter, but it's valid, it's mine and I happen to love it.