Please don’t tell anyone I’m here.
I am halfway through a Tesco shop which needs to come tomorrow.
I am surrounded by notes for the summer programme of children’s activities at church which I need to type up and prepare ahead of a meeting next week.
I have, at my right hand, a pretty notebook filled with scribbles about Mumsnet Workfest, which I went to in London on Saturday, and which was amazing, and which I need to distill into a blog.
I have, at my left hand, an jotter open on page one of a long and rather ambitious to-do list, which roams from the relatively simple “book holiday insurance” through to the frankly simplistic “career?!?!” (see above).
There’s a window open behind this screen with emails reminding me to submit work invoices, send off documents, arrange, finalise, reply…
And there’s a small boy, in his pyjamas, eating the half-finished bowl of beans he hid under a cushion after lunch when my attention was distracted on a phone call, demanding to drink my tea and wanting to “help” me type.
The pyjamas are the hangover from a hoped-for nap, which never materialised but turned, instead, into a series of increasingly unnerving thuds from the floor above, before ending in a cheery little voice behind me saying: “Oh, there you are, Mummy”.
I’m glad one of us knows where I am.