My, is that the time?

Work is a four letter word. No, not really. well, yes, really, obviously it is, but not in the wash-your-mouth-out with soap way. Actually, I met someone today who really did that to her child when she swore (well, it was f*****g, which is pretty bad for a three year old) and now has soap words rather than swear words. Do I laugh, look incredulous or simply report her for cruelty?
But work.... that insidious, time hungry, stop me puting and puttering, send me into spins of efficiency work..... that work has kept me from reading let alone writing for a month. Yes, the money is useful and, yes, I am facing two weeks off without that horrible oh-God-what-can-we-do-for-nothing feeling which is nice, but......
I worked all bar 2 afternoons last week and I enjoyed it. I also did all my washing, cleaned my house and made some more of a ripple blanket that, without work, would be crawling along. Efficiency and priorities, you see. But I kind of feel that I am not talking to my friends. Like all I do is drop by occasionally to check up. I know this time will pass and that, come October my cry will be of no money and loads of time, but for now I am (not loaded) but money comfortable and time stretched. So, an apology and a plea.... that I wil be along when I can, but that until July my time here is limited, because when I am not working I want to spend time with my three. Time is fleeting and madness takes its toll. So, and here I must crave your pardon, fair ladies, in a face off between another game of Cluedo (no, don't cheat, Princess) or time spent strolling along the labyrinthine paths of your blogs....... pass me the lead pipe, someone. I'm off to murder Mrs Peacock in the Library.


And two book recommendations. Perhaps these have also contributed to my absence;
The Thirteenth Tale which is absolutely brilliant and kept me in thrall (Who/what/why?) as I tried to make the "best cookies in the world, Mumsy!" (my son knows how to keep me in the kitchen) and The Shakespeare Secret which combined my love of quasi-historical hysterical romps with my favourite playwright in a(nother) thinking mans Da Vinci Code. It was very good, and the writer obviously knows her stuff. Both first novels, both years in gestation. Either the writers will be bitten by the financial rewards and churn out possibly passable second novels, or these are their magnum opii and they'll sink without a trace. I hope they have another few novels each, actually. Perhaps a thinking man's Da Vinci code based on the new discovery that Patti Boyd actually wrote all of George Harrison and Eric Claptons best tracks and that she is currently seeking another reasonable musician to marry so that she can put out some more music. Or perhaps not.
Have a good March, ladies. See you all again!