Better Out than In.

Nobody is more surprised than I am to be writing this. Oversharing is not my  bag. I am very stereotypically and old fashionedly  British in that way. There will be no sitting around discussing my inner angst,  oversharing about my childhood, analysing   my bowel movements or publicly exploring my love life,   thank you very much.

So I can’t tell you why, just under three weeks before my fiftieth, stuck at home in the middle of a pandemic, jobless and bored, I suddenly feel compelled to write, when actually there seems comparatively little to talk about but there it is.

I think it’s my husband B’s fault. He bought a new vacuum cleaner, chortling away that it  was “an early birthday present, ” which he thinks is a joke.  Instead of dragging a three ton Dyson around the house, denting the paintwork and accidentally hoovering up the cat, I now have a portable cordless one that I can take anywhere. Unfortunately (and this may be down to my nearly fifty year old hormones that I refuse to discuss) I now can’t seem to stop vacuuming. B, who  is working from home, has already had complaints from  his colleagues about a persistent whining noise accompanying every  Zoom team meeting.  I was brought up a feminist ,  I should be above this passive aggressive sniping just because I can’t get a job.  You wouldn’t catch Germaine Greer exerting vengeful spite with a vacuum cleaner. So, “Better out than in”  as they say, although this usually means belching or worse. Better out on the page than stuck in the house in a perimenopausal rage, banging about with my Dyson on full blast.