Hoovering sparkling stars

1X1A0780I have no idea which day of the week it is and I’m hoovering sparkling stars off the carpet.

I’ve just deposited three highly excited and slightly drunk 20-somethings (daughter among them) at a music festival, leaving my Mini and my nerves frayed by their exuberance following 40 minutes in mobile close quarters.

Returning to the flat I discover the newly-formed Constellation of Glitter covering all main arterial carpet routes; an expanding universe also now attaching to the cat and dog.

There cannot be much still stuck to the girls. My car is also full of it.

Welcome to my staycation.

“Lovely week off work,” I’d told myself. “Pop home to Bournemouth for a few days and hang with daughter, see friends, do some writing. Chill.”

Day one the boiler threw a hissy fit and would only be placated by a certified engineer.

The following morning, I found myself painting my bedroom, only after teasing a flowery border from the wall, demolishing a bookcase, and rehoming the contents of its shelves.

Day three I threw all sanity to the wind and negotiated the dark arts of flat pack furniture assembly.

On the fourth I was flashed by a speed camera.

By the time, on the fifth day, the next door but one hotel caught alight and became a major incident involving 100 firefighters and a police cordon – with my block inside – any semblance of calm mindfulness on my behalf was pretty much buggered.

So the eardrum battered taxi services, and intergalactic vacuum cleaning on the final day really wasn’t so bad after all.

Holiday? I’m bloody glad it’s over. I’m actually looking forward to returning to my manic plate-spinning with one arm tied behind my back job in local government communications. Better the bonkers stress you know.

Staycations (stay at home vacations) are on the rise among us Brits, even though they cost more than foreign breaks. When it pisses down (and it will) we spend more dosh than planned keeping ourselves entertained.

For me it was the cost of DIY materials. And the boiler’s insistence I cough up for an emergency call-out. I’m now waiting to receive my £100 fine and three penalty points notification in the post from Dorset Police.

Don’t get me wrong, there were some smiley moments. I did catch up with friends and daughter, which was lovely.  The sun chased away the clouds long enough for one afternoon on the beach, and the hound and I discovered some new walking haunts.

What about writing? Sweet F.A. sadly apart from this article and some scribbles in my notebook. Shoddy I know.

But the holiday magic DID capture me as I was sucking up a small planetary system next to the kitchen. Just for a moment I couldn’t remember the day of the week.

Or maybe it was stress-induced amnesia.

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