This week, I’ve fallen out with the world.
The weather is awful, cold and windy, there’s Christmas decorations in several of my favourite places, and a certain TV supplier just put my monthly bill up by £10.23.
On weeks like this, I have always found comfort in two things, house cleaning and enjoying a lovely dinner.
The cleaning is an attempt to control and appreciate my indoor environment at a time when it’s too miserable to go outside, and the fancy dinner is just a wee treat to take away the bitter taste in my mouth.
The cleaning went well.
Luckily I have a two-year-old who undid almost every I did, but eventually got the hang of it and ran a wet cloth along all mirrored surfaces.
She also hid teddy bears in newly-washed pillowcases, washed her potty in Diet Coke, and mistook a dirty duster for a slice of cheese and happily placed it on buttered toast.
Anyway, after the whole day, we finally got there, and the house was sparkling and smelling of spring.
After getting the wee one to bed, I thought about my special reward dinner.
I had, for weeks, been trying to convince my friends to come with me to an expensive restaurant where the memories of having a certain dish were amazing.
But after a few diary clashes, I gave up on all of them, and decided to order in.
It cost more than I remembered, but I was convinced it would be worth it.
But sadly, it didn’t live up to my high hopes. Never dream of a dinner for several months and think it’s going to be as good as you think. It was only pasta, for heaven’s sake, what did I expect?
But, in turn, does that mean that something you’re not necessarily looking forward to won’t be as bad as you thought?