Last night, as I sat covered with children on the sofa, one of them asked what my hobby is.
And I realised that I don’t have one.
And that bothered me.
One of them piped up: “Reading mummy, that’s your hobby”. And it is, to a degree. But I don’t dedicate nearly enough time or energy to it to make it a real hobby. I no longer read the kind of books that will challenge and inspire me – I read fluff that stops my brain from torturing me about why I’ve not cut the grass or vaxed the carpets.
It used to be writing before my carefree carvings gave way to corporate creations and earning a living from doing the thing I love. And that’s good, it’s better than good in fact, but it leaves me lacking the time to dedicate to just throwing words at a page for the sake of it.
I can’t honestly call this a return to blogging – I’ve just published one post that was actually a draft that I stumbled upon, written over a year ago. But in doing so I remembered something vital. That I love this. That it’s self-indulgent nonsense, and that’s okay. My children want me to return to blogging so they can get ‘free stuff’. I’ve assured them that ain’t happening, but regardless I might try and do more of it, to clear my head of the clouds of untapped thoughts, to vent, to laugh, and to reflect occasionally… That’s got to be a good thing.