Shakespeare; surely one, if not the most famous of English writers, was born on 23 April 1564 which would make him 454 years old. It was a pity we didn’t have something planned for this most auspicious day, a few Shakespearean sonnets or a fire breathing dragon clinging onto the roof.
Mine was a bit of a ‘Yorkie’ week – plenty to get my teeth into and very chunky and it started with high hopes of being able to shed my winter garb when the Met Office forecast a heatwave.
Whenever I learnt something new my mother would say encouragingly “another string to your bow” and this week when I passed one of our wonderful volunteers as I headed back to the car one evening she not only said another string to you bow but added “it’ll look good on your CV”. My paranoia straight away wondered if she knew something I didn’t. But she was in a hurry to get to the theatre to watch the live screening of Macbeth with Christopher Eccleston
Apparently I have the patience of a saint which put me in good stead for Children’s Week. Herding cats was one metaphorical description as we saw dozens of the little poppets arriving with dazed parents who looked like they had been deprived of adult interaction, sleep, decent food and daylight
I had my hair cut this week. I know right, not exactly headline news, but for me it’s quite a major event, mostly because it’a a major inconvenience. When I worked in London BC (before-children), it was all part of life’s rich pattern; I thought nothing of jumping on the train on a Saturday and popping into the salon that was in Covent Garden.
PC (post-children) and back in full-time work, I go to a relatively local salon. When I get there, there’s no preamble, it’s straight into a rapid but firm scrub, some frantic snipping and if I’m lucky, not too many hairs yanked out as it’s blow-dried and I always walk out of the salon with plenty of hair cuttings stuck to my face.