62 days until holidays...

I'm so tired.

Not surprising, really. Not if you consider my last six months.

I was coming home from my belly dancing class on Saturday afternoon. The sun was shining as I walked the avenue of peppercorn trees through the park and it suddenly occurred to me. It was OVER. It was finished. It was done.

I felt the weight slide from my shoulders. For a moment I felt like I could fly.

Then my bones turned to concrete and my blood to liquid lead. Bone-weariness flooded me and it was all I could do to shuffle the block or so home.

Sometimes you are so caught up in the emotional, you forget what it is doing to you physically.

There have been little signs. The nurse testing my haemoglobin when I donated blood commented that my iron levels were the lowest they had been since I started donating nearly 10 years ago.

It's taking me longer to heal and I'm prone to minor headaches.

And I'm tired.

So very, very tired.

I'm counting down the days until I can take a break. I have two weeks off over Christmas and I think I shall use them to do nothing.

Absolutely bugger all.

I shall bask in the summer sun (with sunscreen, of course) and relax and take stock of my new life. And there are only 62 days to go.

In the meantime, I shall eat slabs of steak the size of my head and mountains of nummy asparagus and broccoli and spinach and drink countless pints of Guinness. I have my health to consider, you know!