I am sitting in my garden, bees buzzing lazily in the lavender, water trickling from the feature behind me and a chilled bottle of cider slowly disappearing before me. It is as if I am in a bubble at the moment. Since my degree results arrived I have been unable to pull myself from a languid torpor that has left me in a limbo that I both enjoy and dislike. My days are spent reading - everything from Thomas Hardy to Diane Setterfield - sitting either in my garden or at my kitchen table. I am immersed in worlds distant from my own day to day life as I wait for inspiration, wait for my next challenge to occur to me.
And that is what I want. A challenge. I have run a marathon, I have gained a First Class Degree. Now what? I am considering applying to become a magistrate, but have to speak to my boss before I can go further with this. What else can I do? I no longer want to teach, but what are my skills?
I know that with the crisp, fresh weather of September will come a new vigour, an enthusiasm for life that is currently missing in my days. Until then I wait. I am luxuriating in the pleasure of having nothing to do but paint the fence. Nothing to write, but letters to friends. Nothing to read, but novels that envelope me in their warm arms and drift me away to lands unknown. A hazy feeling of guilt at my idleness occasionally pricks my conscience, but I quickly push it away and tell myself that I deserve a rest.
I wonder what I will do next?
And that is what I want. A challenge. I have run a marathon, I have gained a First Class Degree. Now what? I am considering applying to become a magistrate, but have to speak to my boss before I can go further with this. What else can I do? I no longer want to teach, but what are my skills?
I know that with the crisp, fresh weather of September will come a new vigour, an enthusiasm for life that is currently missing in my days. Until then I wait. I am luxuriating in the pleasure of having nothing to do but paint the fence. Nothing to write, but letters to friends. Nothing to read, but novels that envelope me in their warm arms and drift me away to lands unknown. A hazy feeling of guilt at my idleness occasionally pricks my conscience, but I quickly push it away and tell myself that I deserve a rest.
I wonder what I will do next?




