Imagine. 5 hours of total solitude. I have the entire shoe box to myself. Yes. Trooper is off paint balling at a party and will probably come home covered in large bruises that she will worry over and beg pity for on her way to the bathroom to find cream to smother them. She will also be incredibly happy, in the way that a 12 going on 13 year old girl is want to be after spending an entire afternoon playing a fast and exciting game outside with great friends. Oh the joys of teen-hood. I love the roller coaster of joy followed siflty by the deepest gloom and despair ever known to a human “You just don’t understand! It never happened to you!”
Then Princess and handsome CFO husband are off at a long and probably tedious technical rehearsal for Maria and her Nuns. The great thing is that Princess will have exceptionally pretty hair and will flirt with everybody and charm them all to bits. Sadly HH will sit by waiting 1 and a half Acts for his 9 lines when he’d rather be in bed getting over his terrible cold. Last I heard there was a fever brewing.
And here I sit. Do I take my camera and go out for a walkabout? Do I jump on a Boda and go for a swim/walk/gym/treadmill/shopping experience? No. I do not. In short do I do anything at all useful? No. I sit inside and watch an episode ( or two) of Brothers and Sisters, eat warm pasta straight from the pan, read, type, chat on Skype and read the FT on line. And it is fabulous.
So why do I feel so guilty?