Yesterday I started back at the art consultancy, where I'm interning two days a week until Christmas. I would be lying if I said I was excited about it (see: exhaustion) and getting home yesterday I sat on the couch and had myself a little cry. Not because I'm tired but because I feel a little bit lost and a whole lot muddled. Everytime I contemplate reading anything more taxing than Grazia, or attempt to find the will to see any one of the brilliant exhibitions on in London at the moment - oh Sophie Calle, oh Anish Kapoor - well, my narcoleptic tendencies prevail and instead I nap.
LB's BF is setting me up a website so that I can start the whole networking, shameless self-promotion malarky that comes with foolishly trying to live a freelance writing kind of life but I'm hoping it will inspire me to start writing and thinking creatively again. I'm taking comfort in the small steps - realising moments of charm and beauty in fleeting images that catch my eye - this work by Appau Junior Boakye-Yiadom that was recently on show at Josh Lilley Gallery:
And freshly made bowls of delicious zucchini and potato soup. Now I will never... ever... have the culinary flair, talent or flawless hostessing skills of others but I'm beginning to appreciate the creativity involved in cooking - and anything that doesn't involve frying my brain, well, I think I like it. But one dish at a time.
It's only 29 days until LB and I fly home to Sydney and I. Cannot. Wait. Apart from friends and grannies and big fat glasses of pink wine by the pool I just need some non-London love and a bit of distance to work out what on earth I'm going to do next year. I have a couple of applications underway for freelance type jobs but mostly I am just fretting. When I'm not sleeping that is.
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