Back from the seaside; the pile of paper awaits. Bills, instructions, notes-to-self, letters to forward, newspaper clippings, ancient stamps waiting to see if I can still use them....
The washing machine is churning and snarling, finding the receipts left in pockets digestible, the sand left in socks not.
Miraculously, I have returned with pairs of socks, not lone singletons. Finally, I have grown up.
Snails have attacked the Giant Hosta and decimated its leaves to lacy shadows of their former selves.
I deeply dislike snails most of the time. One by one, I picked them off, the huge rampaging grey-brown molluscs, and dropped them into the food recycling bin. I am mortified by my cruelty.
The holiday was heavenly, by the way.
Does this mean that real life is hell?