I’m still not travelling around the city as I did in London.
My job is to write and it’s at the kitchen table which doesn’t take long to get to.
“Are you putting on weight?” Mum asks.
“No, I don’t think so,” I say, prodding myself.
My saviour is the family’s step machine.
I’m doing twenty minutes in the morning listening to music.
Today it was Jonny Cash.
When I feel that tingle of air meeting the sweat on my arms, I experience a sense of well-being.
It’s also the satisfaction of routine which I need to write this novel.
Writing is slow.
I’m worried my book sounds like an Enid Blyton. Too chirpy, too golly gosh.
I’ll be doing a lot of rewriting over the next few weeks, which is alright because Mum stuffed my suitcase with tea bags.
When I’m happy I’ll send the chapters over to her and she’ll tell me the truth.
Apart from writing, I’m not doing much.
On Thursday I came very close to joining a yoga class.
I got as far as writing my name on a list and going into a room full of chairs.
Yoga on chairs? How unusual, I thought.
“It’s a lecture on yoga,” a woman said.
“Ah,” I said and hurried out of the building.
Apart from looking after my physical being, it’d also be good if I did some voluntary work. At least it would get me out of the house.
Cooking too might be an idea.
Embarrassingly, the only thing I’ve cooked here has been a solitary omelet.
If I don’t get the hob on soon my in-laws may chuck me out.
Is it me, or are other people’s fridges intimidating?
Or is that just an excuse and really I’m afraid that what I cook won’t be good enough?
An excuse ... definitely.
Thank god I can wash up.