So Many Hours in a Day . . .
Oh what a drag, when we have to slig and slag, for a living every day,
then the weekend comes, bring out the drums, and bang them without delay.
In case you are wondering, “”slig and slag” is what I like to call poetic licence. This is really a lament about wanting to fritter my weekends away in reading and writing, and playing the piano and painting or drawing — and feeling guilty if I do because I really should be cooking and cleaning, and doing laundry, and buying groceries, etc. So I do a few dishes, then I think of something I want to write and I come to the computer and write or research something and then look at the time. I haven’t down what I really needed to get done, only what I wanted to do. And Sammy the Yorkie sits by my chair on the off-chance that I might stop what I’m doing and play with him a little.
Ahhh, to be 14 again like my daughter who can decide to make gingerbread cookies on a whim and decorate them like Harry Potter characters with her friend. Ah fortunate 14.
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