I am well aware of the fact that, most of the time – on this blog and in life – I bitch, and I moan and I make mountains out of very small middle-class molehills. What can I say? I am my father’s daughter.
But sometimes, and at the risk of sounding a bit too saccharine-American-on-Thanksgivingy, there’s actually not really anything to moan about, because life’s pretty bloody good.
For instance: I recently had dinner at Polpetto, which I can’t recommend highly enough. If you’ve not had their swordfish carpaccio, I suggest you stop what you’re doing and get down there now. Right now. Stat.
Also: after spending the Bank Holiday weekend away from home, I curled up on the sofa on Monday night, to have the cat – for the very first time in our cohabitation – see fit to snuggle into my lap, purr, and go to sleep. AND I was in jogging bottoms, so it didn’t matter about the cat hair. Win.
I recently got to see The Redhead over lunch in the pub: frankly I’d rather give up an arm than be without that girl.
My friends are, without doubt, wonderful people, who constantly amuse. I could do without Hot Flyer Boy faking fatal nut allergies when I’ve just fed him hazlenut and chocolate torte, but at least everyone else laughed.
A week or so ago, I baked a batch of blondies and took them into the office where they were wolfed down in gratifyingly speedy manner – even the froideur of my angriest colleague is beginning to thaw.
I had a thoroughly good time at an event on Saturday, where I was on the arm of, without doubt, the most handsome man in the room.
My commute is probably longer than most people would consider ideal, but it gives me time to read when otherwise I’d only be asleep. Jilly Cooper fills me with joy, and I’m pretty sure reading Half the Sky has made me a better person.
I have a house that I love. One day, I’ll get round to painting it, and putting up more photos, and changing the light fitting in the sitting room. For now, I’m enjoying all the potential it has, without having to do the hard work to make that potential a reality.
As foodie as you might like to think you are, if the company’s right, sometimes there’s no supper more delicious than bread and hummus.
I spend my days doing a job that I enjoy. My boss and I have a whale of a time laughing at all kinds of non-work related shenanigans, and there’s another trip to New York in the offing, giving me a focus in my idler moments as I plan a route from Saturday brunch at Jane on West Houston up to MOMA for a day spent gawping at pieces of art that stop me in my tracks, and then an early evening stroll in Central Park. Pass the passport.
So, y’'know: can’t complain, really.
Jumping for joy. And why it matters.
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