The title of this post is a phrase I began (over)using at a very messy Reading Festival in 2007. But this is not that story…
This is written by an entirely different person in a very different time and place. This story is set on a rainy Wednesday and written by someone I thought I would never become.
I’ve spent most of my life waiting for my life to start. Wasted time. And I’m not simply referring to the fifteen years of Sundays spent watching repeats of Friends lying on my parent’s sofa. I have wished my life away; wishing I was old enough, wishing it was the weekend, wishing things were different.
And now things are. I live in a lovely house with my beautiful daughter and my brilliant boy. I have a job I love and lots of friends and I know I am a very lucky girl. I am happy.
But time is still a problem. I began writing this (as has become my habit) first thing when I wake up whilst lying in bed but, on a work day, I stood no hope of finishing it. Then I tapped out a few lines whilst waiting outside the childminder’s house and am now trying to finish it sat at my desk at work after shovelling down my lunch. Who knows if I will. Simultaneously, I am marking work, replying to emails, responding to texts, listening to voicemails and making phone calls.
There are never enough hours in the day.
I never thought my life could be so full and I look back on those days spent waiting and wish I could get them back. Not to do it differently but to enjoy it. Time is precious.
And, yes, I am aware I sound like someone’s mum!