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This is the tenth Friday since I started writing these essays. Is it too early to congratulate myself? Probably. Is it much too early to treat this as a small anniversary celebration? Definitely. And yet here I am. Ten weeks is not a significant tract of time, but it is just long enough for this too feel like a significant part of my life. This is what I do every Friday, now.
This, in itself, is a big deal: that I have created a routine for myself, and that I have stuck to it. I am not good at routine. Really, it’s more that I hate it. It has been this way since I was four years old, and I told my mum that I couldn’t standgoing to nursery school any more. The same thing every day. The same nice man on the steps sweeping the leaves every day, and you say hello to him, and he says hello back, and it is hello, hello, sweep, sweep, and then you go down the stairs and do morning singing, and then here is your teacher who you love and she is reading you a story, and then it is lunch time and it is a boiled egg where around the yolk is blue, and you feel sick the same way every time, and then everyone is playing on the grass and the same girl is being allergic to grass in the same way and getting these bumps all on her legs, and then it is sleep time, and everyone is lying down in the dark on these small, small vinyl mattresses with animals on them that make a zipping sound if you move your legs even a tiny bit, and then your mum comes to fetch, and then back up the stairs, and the stairs have more leaves on them which will have to be swept up in the morning. I told all of this to my mum. I said, “I can’t take it anymore.”