I am the slackest blogger. It’s me. I haven’t even been writing in my offline journal, I’m so slack.
I’m not going to start the next paragraph with “in my defence”. I can have written the beginning of fifty billion posts but it doesn’t matter because none of you can see them! So there is no defence, really.
I did get rather irritated by an article called something like “Things you shouldn’t have in your home after 30″ – to pick a few examples, pine furniture is lovely, mismatched crockery is a valid lifestyle decision, and if you did pry my Ikea goods from my cold dead apartment you would be left with very little – but on reflection it was obviously clickbait, and now I can’t find the article anyway. Probably for the best! The argument against mismatched crockery hinges on whether it will impress people at dinner parties. I am forty years old and have never held a dinner party, and if I did, my guests would be suitably impressed by my well-curated eclectic dinnerware collection, and if they weren’t, they could bring their own plates next time. Or I could dig out my grandmother’s Royal Grafton, but I wouldn’t waste that on the sort of people who’d scoff at my octagonal Arcoroc.
I was going to write about my no-makeup look, but my no-makeup look is, in fact, no makeup. My full-makeup look involves at most six products anyway (BB cream or light foundation; brow pencil; eyeshadow; eye liner; mascara; lippy of some description) so it’s not a radical departure. It’s not a political statement either. It’s just that when it’s 35 degrees inside and I’m closing up the caravan and getting ready for a five-hour drive I can’t be bothered putting makeup on. You’re lucky I bother with clothes half the time. And by “you” I mean “everyone between the lower mid north coast and the inner west of Sydney, and also Mr Wright for not having to fund a charge of indecent exposure”.
I was also going to write about my recent nasty cold and the effect it had on my life. It is very difficult to barrack properly when you have lost your voice! There is no hand signal that you can perform that will fully express the concept of “excuse me, umpire, but that player obviously had prior opportunity to dispose of the football before he was tackled, and in consequence you should penalise him for holding the ball and award a free kick to my favoured team immediately” and that is also performable in half of a double bed, and it wouldn’t be as viscerally satisfying as yelling “BAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLL” anyway.
(Addendum: Go Hawks! I am Swans 4 lyf but I was also a paid-up Hawthorn member when we lived in Melbs (they’re Mr Wright’s team; we went to see them beat Geelong in the 2008 grand final), and besides, if Hawthorn keep winning premierships then we’ll keep being the previous reigning premiers, and that can’t be a bad thing.)
(Are the previous reigning premiers the dowager premiers? They are now.)
I would write about the nasty sunburn I picked up over the weekend. It was hot, we were fixing the gutter on the dairy, I wore a swimsuit top that was much more low-cut at the back than I thought, I completely forgot that sunscreen existed, thank you ADHD. But if I tell you about the nasty sunburn then I have to mention waking up in the middle of the night on Sunday morning with my shoulders a fused mass of agony from an exciting synergy of sunburn and overworked muscles, and I don’t want to relive that experience. It’s bad enough a day later.
(I’d attempt to justify the phrase “the middle of the night on Sunday morning”, but I think either you accept it or you don’t.)
I am looking forward to when the skin starts peeling, though, because I am a ghoul.
Right! Panadol, aloe vera and a nice cup of tea, methinks. And maybe an exciting synergy of a cool damp towel and a pedestal fan.