It's been one week since I quit work. One week does not normally sound like a long time. In fact, when I had a job, if someone told me I had a report due in one week, I would usually get started on it quickly, knowing how quickly weeks pass around here. This last week however, interminable.
I am well and truly bored, a symptom which does not agree with me.
Of course, I have 6 million things I could (and probably should) do to occupy my time, but my poor sad brain will still not be engaged. And trying to read while the children are screaming in and out off the house is less than ideal. I started "The Secret Agent" and I like it quite well, but I've reread the first few pages several times because I keep losing my place.
I did 33 loads of laundry yesterday, and today a child complained that he had no clean shorts (he does, in his drawers, but it's been so long since any of the kids thought to look in their drawers for clean clothes, I stymied him!). At least I can still surprise the minions. . .