I have the post-vacation blues in a really really bad way. Back now from a week at an isolated ocean front cottage on Nova Scotia’s North Shore all I can do as I sift through the mountain of laundry, mouldy vegetables in the refrigerator and slide back into the daily routine of finding reasonably clean clothes for work, is scheme up ways to get us all back to the North Shore – for good. All we’d have to do is sell our home, quit our lucrative jobs, unsettle the boys from the bosom of their extended family, and move half a country away....how hard could that be?
Maybe we could try goat farming...use the milk for making soap to sell at a roadside stand to tourists. Or start up a garlic farm and put aside various garlic jams, oils, spreads – and hell, why not – soaps, to sell at a roadside stand to the same passing tourists...or maybe we could move to the nearest Maritime big city where I could get a new job in a new office, husband could get a new job with a new evil empire pharmaceutical company, and we could retire each Friday evening to a seaside cottage and stop on our way to purchase goat milk soap and garlic chutney from little roadside stands set out in an effort to attract the few passing tourists...
Topher and Winston would grow up windswept, rosy cheeked and self-reliant. I would become relaxed, environmentally conscious and have real Wellingtons to wear, not Canadian Tire replicas. Husband would become relaxed, return to his love of painting, and develop a resistance to Canadian mosquitoes, deer flies and black flies (who knew South Africans were such babies when it came to bug bites!), actually have a good reason to wear his real Wellingtons, and we would all gather around the fire in the evening, watching the dog twitch her paws as she slept soundly nearby.
Or maybe I could just grow up and get back to the laundry....
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