Blog Guilt

It’s been almost two weeks since I’ve posted anything on this blog. I was feeling guilty about it, but then I remembered that in the past two weeks I’ve:

  • Flown to Boston then Helsinki for meetings, with a jet lagged 24-hour stopover back in the UK between trips for something masquerading as a weekend. All I remember of it before I was back at Heathrow was an enjoyable Sunday roast at the pub, which was a good move because it meant I didn’t have to eat the curried reindeer penis (only guessing) meatballs Finnair served for dinner on my flight that night.
  • Sold a flat in London and bought and moved into another one on the same day thanks to sheer force of will and endless, occasionally bullying phone calls to solicitors and realtors and mortgage companies. The moving part was done with the sole aid of two guys—one of whom was stoned and smelly yet somehow likable—and their Sanford and Son-esque van-like and certainly unroadworthy vehicle.
  • Braved the streets of central London in a Prius and the price of valet parking at the Swissotel (in fairness I expensed that, but trust me it was still shocking) to attend a meeting in London, before two more days of meetings in an overheated Hampshire country house hotel, then back to London for an evening of fiddles and champagne for charity at the Dorchester.

With all these hotels one could be forgiven for thinking I make my living as call girl. While the truth is far less interesting, my job—and the fact that I’m actually enjoying it—is the main reason why life has gotten so hectic lately, and the main reason why I’ve been neglecting the blog. (The decision to move flats in London was just because husband and I court unnecessary chaos like a heroin addiction.) This is an alarming pattern in my life: as my engagement with the paying work I do increases, my creative life free falls in inverse proportion and vice-versa. During my last job in Los Angeles, the one where I endured working for a hair-gelled Texan named Chad, I somehow found time to complete a part-time professional cooking course. Work was a dead zone but thanks to the cooking, this was one of the most creatively fulfilling periods of my life. (One, I hasten to add, that has not stuck. I was reminded of this last Friday when in the midst of packing up the flat husband shook a plastic funnel in my face, exasperated over my refusal to part with any of my kitchen paraphernalia that was acquired during that “cooking phase,” and shouted, “Get real, you don’t cook anymore!”) And so I despair a bit. My new found job satisfaction may mean I blog a little less. But at least I’ve written this blog. And I kept the funnel.

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