Twenty something year old doing twenty something year old things

 How do you approach your deadlines? An easy breezy week or two in advance with plenty of time for editing, procrastination and intelligent gathering of brain waves? Or up to the wire, dotted i's, crossed T's the day of?  I always liked to think I was in the first camp, however last weeks experience has shown me that in my old age, I have slipped up. Panic writing for two job applications on two separate days occurred with caffeine and a thesaurus being the necessary survival kit. Cover letters require a degree of cunning, artifice as well as gumption. I generally have these by the bucket load and live to tell the tale. I am hopeful that my future bank account as well as adulthood will thank me. This is also my excuse for not giving you, dear readers, a blog last week. I know that you missed me.  I write this now feeling distinctly cosy--or, to satisfy the Norwegians--Hygge. I returned from child minding 90% wet and 10% human and have recently returned to a semi-normal state. T

 Do you wanna build a snowman? I do.  I sang this line to child A and B this afternoon, whilst playing Rounders in the snow globe. It was met with scornful faces. I think there is clearly a child 'C' in the mix.  The snow we have at the moment is called 'graupel'--this I learnt from the trustee RTE radio 1. It is pellet snow which, to me, looks like ash, lending a post-apocalyptic vibe to the already, admittedly, rather apocalyptic situation. It's all good though, I have a flatmate now, ah you heard?  and we keep each others spirits up by speaking to each other in clipped South African accents. I think we're excellent. Until we go off into the Rrrrussian and then we're in trouble. There's no getting out alive, until someone opens the vodka or, preferably, switches on Killing Eve. I must tell you about Killing Eve, I must tell everyone about Killing Eve. A murderous, murderess psycho-path who waltzes around in flouncy pink tulle dresses, flitting effortle

 This evening marks my last as a solo agent/lady of the manor/ isolation queen; tomorrow the age of 'Rathgor Roomies' shall commence. Above me still hangs a handmade and helpful A4 poster, 'Phoebe's lockdown guide to solo living'. Rule #1"The lockdown blog--a study in dramatic writing. Make a 'fridge trip' exciting". Whether or not this blog was a study in 'dramatic writing' I cannot comment. Certainly, I do not recall resorting to writing about fridge trips. This, I feel must be rectified:  Shaking like a small needy jack Russell she made her way over to the chrome grey box and opened its curved door. The glaring white light bathed her reddened eyes as they roved desperately over its assorted contents. Her nose twitched. It was not detecting the much needed scent despite being well trained in this mission. There was a smell alright, but flared nostrils failed to pick out the rose amongst a multitude of thorns. Jalapenos, dips, cheese, mil

 A wet and grey day to begin the first of a new month. Grim, unsolicitous skies not withstanding, it is a lucky day. Why is it a lucky day? Because despite waking up late on my day off and remembering at ten thirty AM "crap, the BINS!!" they were somehow still collected. Silver linings. Or should I say, bin linings?  My wet laundry was finally hung up to 'dry', it now hangs sodden like wet rags on the line--mocking me.   I spent the day scrubbing, glad tidings for the arrival of my new flatmate. My hair was in curlers, the vacuum was on and a cigarette dangled from the corner of my lips. Hint, only one of those statements is true. Conclusion: domestic goddess virtues are not all lost. A day of spring cleaning for the arrival of the first day of spring. It was also a day of staring blankly at a power point presentation due to be used during a lesson on Saturday. I productively added pretty pictures in between taking compulsive sips of coffee. It is a fact that drinking