So I came home around lunch; ate lunch; made gingerbread cats with the prepackaged dry ingredients a friend gave me at Christmas; picked all the remaining peaches and sliced them for the dehydrator while rewatching Untold Scandal; put together most of the paperwork needed to switch my mortgage to another bank ("EasySwitch", hah!); left a message at said bank to clarify the remainder ("I'll get back to you within two hours," hah!); paid some bills; trimmed some plants off the house and letterbox; wrote up a book review and answered a Statistics New Zealand survey and returned a message from a mysterious bricklayer (someone at the Earthquake Commission seems to have got their wires crossed?) while someone pruned back my hedges as far as they could be safely pruned; put away my laundry; and discovered a remnant of chewable Milo while fossicking for jars and tins to put dehydrated peaches in tomorrow.
(Most of my jars got used up for dehydrated plums, but I think I've got enough left.)
And now, having chewed my Milo all up, I've kind of run out of things to do.
Things that I feel like doing, that is. I mean, I could do the dishes, clean the shower, scrub at some paint stains with meths, write a short story, submit some more old stories to the next markets on the lists, or all sorts of things like that. For that matter I could read one of the books on my to-read pile, but reading a book is what you do on the bus when you don't have a laptop with you.
Ooh, I know, I'll email my friend and ask her what was in that gingerbread package, because those were even more more-ish than most gingerbread. After that, I guess I could go to bed early? I mean, people do that sometimes, right?
...Oh, or dinner. I could have dinner too, I guess. Gosh, I'm bad at this eating thing.
- In which she takes a half-day off and ends up bored