… and I duly writhe with guilt as I tweet away.
Since last posting I have teetered into middle age to the sound of Gaelic and Gallic fiddles and haggis burning away, and developed more parallel lives than is intelligently wise.
As a teenager I cultivated aspirations (war correspondency being foremost); as a 20-something, I worked towards them (doctoralisms); and as a 30-year-old I am learning (brutally, perhaps) that you may get what you ask for, but it may not be what you want, or need.
(This has been put far more eloquently, but I am in little mood for musical quips.)
The result is the assumption of multiple hats: one for work, one for my own research loves, one for survival of my long-term sanity, and another to ruthlessly cling to the time that affords family, friends, yoga, books and baking.
Sadly, blogging has been the first casualty and my creative writing, which commenced its blossoming under Fadia Faqir‘s wonderful tutelage last year, is the next.
I must rectify the former, at least.
In the meantime, I cling to the vestiges of dreams and charge through this challenging time.
It seems life never tires of presenting unusual new obstacles and if the past 10 years have proved anything, nothing is insurmountable.
Onwards and upwards, then.