Do you ever feel like you are doing life wrong? Like you should be doing loads of stuff, but instead you are quietly just doing you?

July started with a much-anticipated trip to Barry in South Wales. There to perform an extract of my work for Folding Rock magazine, I took the chance to catch up with my daughter as we made exciting plans for what to do.

Performing my work is always fun. I’m very good at it, and the feedback was ace. ‘You were my favourite,’ was whispered to me more than once, though why they needed to whisper, I wasn’t sure.

The rest of our plans melted in the sweltering heat, and avoiding the beach and the city centre museums, instead, we headed off for the excitement of the big ASDA.

Ooh, I love a big Asda, me. Don’t judge, we don’t have Asda ‘round my way. (For overseas readers, a big Asda is a giant supermarket with clothes and bedding and posh apples – pretty much everything you need.)

In the air-conditioned cool, we strolled along aisles of vests and nightshirts, fancy frocks, and obscenely gesturing gnomes.

Picking up snacks for after the performance, we rejected the noise of the bar, and instead sat on a bench by a lake, scoffing hummus and kettle chips and cursing forgetting something cool to drink. It was almost a perfect evening.

Then it was driving home to rest in bed for a few days before life began again.

The Grandson arrived for his summer holidays. Two weeks in the world of a nine-year-old, we have done it all. Dams and dancing, dog walks and Doctor Who. I’m too tired for the rest of the alphabet, so let’s just say it’s been a ball.

Time together is such a luxury, especially with nothing else to do but answer questions about why dogs have tongues a different shape to ours, and ‘can I have more ice cream?’ – the answer to that is always yes. I’m now in need of vegetables and a long lie down for the coming month.

For August, I’m planning to try, and will fail, to remember it’s my wedding anniversary. I will fail to calculate how many years we’ve been married and briefly smile at the Mister as we sit on opposite sofa’s silently tapping at laptops. I say silently, but his breathing is always annoyingly loud.

The dog, torn over who he loves the most, or in reality, who he thinks is most likely to get up and let him out to bark at birds, will hedge his bets and lie on the floor between us in front of a fan, farting at appropriate moments.

I will plan to do too much writing. I will not plan enough rest. I will plan to do more gardening than I am capable of doing and then grumble when I haven’t done enough. Skint, from the grandson’s visit (who knew ice cream cost so much?), our days will be quiet and serene (well, as long as the Mister controls his breathing.) Endlessly asking each other what’s for tea, we will pick tomatoes in the garden and wonder what to do with so many runner beans.

This is our life. Nothing fancy, nothing flash. I think we may be doing it wrong. Aren’t we meant to be looking for excitement, for adventure, for pazazz?

But then the daughter calls and invites me down to stay. With a fancy new job and a fancy new pay rise, there’s a big Sainsbury’s on the other side of the hill.

There’s pazzaz for ya, I’ll get my coat.

Happy Summer sweeties, I hope you get time to do just you (unless you breathe really loud, then maybe do you away from me.)

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