We’re over a week into January, and I’m still waiting to be gripped by that “new year, new start” energy I love so much. Never mind a new year: it’s a whole new decade. And a leap year, which means an additional blank page if you want to drag out my favourite metaphor. Except… I’ve been using the same notebook as my journal and scrapbook since I turned 36 in 2018, and although I can only keep it closed now with the help of a stretched-out hair band I’d rather not waste the paper it would take to pick up something new. This year I turn 38, and I’m not planning any dramatic personality overhauls. My life, like my notebook, continues. This year my dreams are smaller, quieter. The word “domestic” makes me shudder a little too, you know. It’s got sexist overtones, hasn’t it; tied up in some ideal of the 1950s housewife/”goddess” archetype. At least, that’s the justification I’ve always made for never putting anything away. Y’know, I’ve been working all day, and now I’ve got more important shit to do. They say Instagram is a highlight reel, but I can tell you categorically that every house in […]
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