Knee-deep in form-fillers today. The worst kind of comp - for me at least. I usually give these a wide berth, but you’re hard pushed to win a holiday off a basic like-tag on Instagram. Truth is, you’re hard pushed to win a holiday full-stop, but if you don’t try, you don’t prevail.
I nurture this fantasy that, with enough rest and recuperation, my brain might grow back. I don’t imagine I’ll ever be able to conjugate beautiful French or discuss with confidence - or failing that, bluster - the role of women in nineteenth-century opera, but the idea of being able to recall a three-item shopping list retains a certain allure.
There was a time I could manage a passable approximation of the above. That time, however, has passed. I can remember to get two children to school - usually on the right days, and sometimes even in their own clothes. I can remember to vacuum the carpet. And goodness knows I can remember to sob into the perpetually spewing laundry basket. But these are the squeaky wheels. Can I remember to touch up the wood-stain on the dining room floor or to dust absolutely anything? Not a chance.
So, that’s why I’m filling in forms today. Not because I’m hopeful of winning a holiday - no, I’m under no illusion about the likelihood of that - but rather because I’m imagining what it’d be like to have a week in Mauritius without children; without arguments; without people asking me questions then interrupting my answers with bullshit. I’m imagining what it’d be like to have informed opinions. I’m imagining what it’d be like to have a head inside which it wasn’t raining anvils. I’m imagining what it’d be like to have half a brain.
I imagine it’d be nice.
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