Despite going to bed late last night as we had Ellie's birthday party, I am awake at 6am and spend a quiet hour or two working on my novel, The Dying of the Light. My trip to Egypt reminded me of the fact that in my heart of hearts, I am a writer. I love teaching; I enjoy interacting with my classes and all the deep and meaningful discussions we have, but I am not content with only being a teacher. My second novel, All Come to Dust, is due to be published this year - eleven years after This September Sun. I cannot, I say to myself, leave it another eleven years before The Dying of the Light is published. Setting aside the time to write is difficult though when you have a full-time job, two school-going children, an aged parent and you live in Zimbabwe. I have gone back to waking up early to write. It's hard at first, but I am always glad I did it. It gives my day a strong sense of purpose.
Three of Ellie's friends stayed the night last night. Two of them are picked up on time, but one seems destined to stay here forever. At last, a brother arrives to fetch her. It turns out there is no parent at home as both are in South Africa.
I have given up bread for Lent. How this will help anyone else, I don't know, but hopefully I might lose some weight.
John finally got the pool sparkling blue and ever since the weather has been grim - cold and grey.
Sian comes home from Harare where she was taking part in a gala and waterpolo matches. John actually lights a fire in the grate in the lounge and we watch Murder in Mesopotamia. Poirot has become our family escape.
I am glad no one stayed this weekend. It was nice to have Ellie's party without walking on eggshells, wondering if we were disturbing anyone. It is nice to relax in our home.
We are all in bed by 8.30pm.
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