Apparently, there’s a new series on Netflix about tidying up with expert de-clutterer Marie Kondo. Now, I haven’t seen it (too busy watching the entire series of Fleabag back to back, way more fun than folding clothes).
We’re off to a festival this weekend. And it’s my favourite kind of festival because it’s local, meaning I get to soak up the atmosphere and still collapse into my own bed at the end of it.
When it comes to Mother’s Day, I don’t ask for much. Which is just as well because the Husband would pass out if he knew how much my favourite bubble bath cost (Elemis Muscle Soak, as it happens).
After spending last week in London tasting around 100 wines a day (I was judging at the International Wine Challenge, not just really thirsty), I’m back and trying to get on top of things.
This week, I hit 45. I know age is just a number blah blah blah but honestly, when I woke up on the morning of my 45th birthday it was the first time I’ve not been that excited about it being my birthday.