I don’t know the meaning of Silent Sunday. What’s that all about? All these bloggers seem to be doing it. Just a photo, no words. Not me. I talk/type all the time. Especially when I’ve had alcohol or caffeine. Can’t help myself. I am like a verbal fountain. Well, except with my family. Then I’m a clam. I need heaps more therapy to understand why, but I can’t afford it because I’ve spent all our money on clothes in Hawaii. Silent Sunday appears to be some foreign invention anyway. They do it in British blogging circles. Some cutie-pie shot of their kid or arty nature pic. And y’know, it just wouldn’t work for me. I don’t think. It would totally tank. I think. Like that time I did a Woman’s Day cover with Tommy and Pammy on it, and the line: “Don’t do it Pammy” (entreating her not to take the bastard back). That sort of should-have-seen-it-coming tanking. But then, African-spiced Cauliflower Soup and The Aioli Incident didn’t do so well either. Today might have been a good time to give Silent Sunday a try, as I don’t have anything entertaining to yabber about. I wish I could discuss some wife-swapping incident in the Avenues or a humilating moment involving me and alcohol. But my life is the Hay plains (for my five non-Australian readers, the Hay plains are an endless stretch of saltbush in western New South Wales, oddly fun to drive through … for the first 30 minutes). I had no time for humiliating moments yesterday. I was too busy making cupcakes and dips and cakes and shite. I had some school mums (and dads) over for afternoon nibbles and today Sprog 1’s long-day-care friend and family are coming to lunch. Plus I wasted 45 minutes power-walking to an inspection of a house on a busy road with a pool built precariously over a precipice that Husband will never let us buy, despite it being a total bargain. Party pooper.
So how’s your Sunday going?