This could so easily have been a ranty post:
This was the week that the twin apostles of anti-feminism, Jones & Moir, appeared fixated on destroying my mojo with their hatred of ‘the normal woman’. Their Eurovision style bid to place themselves on a (wobbly) pedestal and croon their anthem “I’m better than you-oo-oo” had me all fired up and ready to rant, and I did, a little, over at Mums Rock.
This could so easily have been a despairing post:
This was the week in which we were forced to remember the most shocking depiction of our own species’ potential for harming its own, with the reported re-arrest of Jon Venables. The obvious questions about reform and rehabilitation feel altogether too academic in the face of such tangible horror.
In the end, it’s neither:
All of the above has rocked me this week. Maybe I allow myself to be unduly affected by the outside world. Maybe I should try harder to block it all out. Either way, come Friday I was very happy to be escaping to the Mother-ship, aka a small village in North Norfolk where my parents live.
There’s something about ‘going home’. Even as an adult, that feeling of stepping back into the familiar, being handed a cup of tea, sat down in front of the telly, fed, watered and cherished is just delicious.
I have slept this weekend- we have woken to the sound of our children being breakfasted while we had cups of tea delivered to our bedside.
I have napped on the sofa- unheard of in our own family home where there is always some crisis (big or small) that prevents the soporific effect of soft furnishings enveloping me.
I have seen my grandparents and enjoyed an entire morning alone with my husband.
Yes, I have been thoroughly spoilt!
But, best of all, I have done the thing that I HAVE to do every time I go home…