It’s been a quiet weekend here, which to be honest is the way I prefer them. I like people, especially my people, but I also like home. Pottering about, opening and closing the fridge door wondering what to eat next, being stalked by the cat and chasing her up and down the hall, eating crackers straight from the box, folding the week’s washing, the burble of the coffee machine on the stove top, curling up on clean sheets with a book and reading away the afternoon as the light slips across the bedroom floor.
The first week of April is coming to a close and by rights we are deep in Autumn, but Sydney’s not having a bar of it. It’s still hot here, summer hot, and my Instagram feed is peppered with images of Sydneysiders splashing about in ocean pools. Am I the only one out here who looks at other people’s lives and feel I should be doing more with mine? All those energetic days spent out in the sunshine, splashing about, Living. I should be reading more, writing more, swimming, riding my bike along the river, dancing at the Lansdowne until the wee hours of the morning and flirting with attractive strangers I have no intention of giving my number to.
It’s 20 past 5 on Sunday afternoon, and it’s about this time I usually get a pang of regret about all the things I didn’t get done. But today I’m feeling strangely satisfied with the last 48 hours. I’m 233 pages into a new book (The Immortalists, by Chloe Benjamin), there’s a cake on the bench waiting to be iced, and a frittata cooling in the oven for lunch this week. I’ve worked about 10 rows of the body of my second Timely cardigan, around a half-dozen rows of a cotton cardigan that had a previous life as an Andi Satterlund, and I finally fitted the bodice and stitched it to the skirt of a dress I cut out and began sewing in January. I’ve just hung it on the bedroom door in anticipation of the zip which I’ll sew in one evening this week.
And last night at around 8.20pm, purely on a whim, I rolled a small ball of pink Bendigo cotton left over from my first Timely cardigan, and cast on just under 200 stitches of yet another cardigan, which I will spend the rest of the evening doing 2 x 2 ribbing and mapping the pattern in my head. The only person I’ve seen all weekend are the lovely girls in the local bakery who made my coffee yesterday, and handed me a loaf of chewy sourdough, which has been breakfast for two days. And as I sit here and sing along to Sarah Blasko as the sky outside darkens, I feel incredibly grateful for this quiet life of baked cakes and slipped stitches, of eggs cracked into bowls and baked to perfection, of embroidered cherries on denim dresses, and tortoiseshell cats who think they are in the jungle, and afternoons free of obligation that are lost between the sheets and the pages.
Which is all to say that I hope your weekend was as productive and meandering as mine, and your contentment level overflows.