I only have myself to blame for the crazy that I’ve injected into my Tuesday nights. I agreed to let the youngest play in a netball competition on the Northern Beaches. We never know until the Tuesday morning what time the match will be. The first two Tuesdays were OK because they were early ones and she could catch a bus home before dark.
Last night was a 7.50pm kick off.
So my Tuesday looked like this. Work until 5.30pm. Walk 20 minutes to the car. Drive to skipping practice to collect the youngest and her friend. Drive the friend home. Drive the youngest home so she can make a quick quesadilla for her dinner. Write a story about organic wine for Drinks Digest while the quesadilla toasts. Chuck some takeaway sushi at the eldest for his dinner. Throw on some casual clothes. Drive to sports centre, drop off the youngest.
I missed two phone calls along the way: one from my friend Mel, who I spotted was selling a chest of drawers for fifty bucks on the local buy, swap and sell page. I need a chest of drawers for my new bedroom, so I made an offer. She wanted to drop it off to my place last night. Soz, no could do.
The other one was from my friend Tracy, who wanted to tell me about some big stuff that’s happening with the Kathleen Folbigg case. I really need to find a minute to talk to her.
I also must get onto having a blood test in my continuing quest to work out why I’m dizzy and nauseous with blocked ears.
Anyways, after dropping off the youngest I drove to DD’s for a quick dinner. He cooked me a juicy porterhouse steak on his Weber. He was looking a bit frazzled too – he’d over-scheduling himself for a bike ride and grocery shopping before entertaining me.
Then I drove back to the sports centre to collect the youngest and drove home to do more frantic booze writing, before crashing in bed.
I should really have been looking on SEEK and LinkedIn for jobs to apply for, as I’ll have JobSeeker breathing down my neck again soon. There’s also an issue to sort out with MyGov, which is chasing me for an estimate of my salary for the year or they’re going to reject my Family Tax Benefit claim.
My salary for the year? That one’s a mystery to us both.
I’d better get onto solving it.
Fark, and so another manic day begins.
No song of the day, I’ve run out of time.