Firstly. I don't have to get up at 6 o clock in the morning. I don't know if you've ever
seen 6am, but it's not pretty, it tends to have a greyish sheen to it on account of being seen through a haze of half-awake, although it does have the redeeming characteristic of not having Jeremy Kyle in it anywhere.
If it looks like this, you haven't opened your eyes yet. This is a good move. Do your best to keep it that way.
Secondly. Books. I can sit and read a book without having to be somewhere else, dental appointments notwithstanding. Books are, as far as I can tell, the main reason for holidays. Or it could be the other way around, I forget. But. Books. My TBR (to-be-read, for the unitiated) pile is now so large that it has been annexed by Denmark.
Thirdly. I am in when the postman comes and, therefore, able to give him a Hard Stare when my copy of Fortean Times is late. It might not be, and probably isn't, his fault, but still. It's the principle of the thing.
This is the thing of which it is the principle.
Fourthly. No photocopying or eyeballs. Nuff said.
Fifthly, which is definitely not a number because it looks so stupid written down. My bed. I could quite happily live here forever, and work interferes with this desire. I don't even have to be asleep. Although I do worry that my Memory Foam mattress may have to go into therapy to forget some of the things I do there.
Why, what did you think I meant?
Sixthly. I get to write all day if I want to. Sometimes, if edits are due, even if I don't want to.
Seventhly. I get to increase my knowledge of Tea Shops of Yorkshire. I am on a one woman mission to sample all the varieties of scone (that's
scown, not
scon which is not a real word, more like an expression of displeasure) that Yorkshire has to offer. I fear this may be age-related, like loss of short term memory and an inexplicable fixation with John Nettles.
Eighthly. I can spend time carrying out the important task of being actively engaged in the promotionally advantageous social networking sphere. Yes, all right, I mean I can spend all day sitting on Facebook. But that's important! How else will I find out what the weather is like in Hemel Hempstead and whether or not close friends are having apple crumble for tea?
I have to know these things. Just because, all right?
Ninthly. Did I mention the thing about the postman? I did? Oh. Well, it's important. Plus, sometimes he brings me cheques, and I can take them straight to the bank during the holidays, instead of having to wait for a convenient time, which is almost always when the bank is closed, and the children and I have to sit around in the street with clogs and shawls on and wait for them to open so that I may obtain money with which to buy food. Like Catherine Cookson. Well, not her
personally, but her books. Only with less herrings.
Tenthly. To sum up; no getting up at some single-digit hour that even the milkman regards as too early; the ability to read an entire novel without having to put it down somewhere that I later forget and only finding it when I've forgotten what the plot was and having to start it again with cat pawprints over the essential denoument; prompt delivery of my UFO news; no bullocks' bobbly bits in a bag; horizontal HobNobs; writing; Yorkshire Tea shops (hereby to be known as Parkin spaces...); Twitter, without the guilt, and catching the bank actually open.
And there you have it. Six weeks of the above. Happy school holidays, everybody! And my commiserations to those with small children....
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