For the past week I've been living with my older brother, his girlfriend and their two cats. I'm going to be house-sitting and cat-sitting for Jez and Rachel as they go off on holiday to New Zealand for a month - and they wanted the cats to get used to me. So, as of tomorrow, I shall be living alone (well, devoid of human company) for the first time in my life.
I'm looking forward to it. Quite possibly more than I should. But I am twenty-three, dammit - and now is the time to start being more independent (please do not be mentioning that this should have been occuring several years ago.) I've got a shopping list and a plan in my mind as to when I want to do certain chores and the bills aren't mine to pay - YAY!
In the meantime, I'm finally reading. Granted, I've been reading Agatha Christie murder mysteries, but I've been through three of them - and a Dick Francis novel - and it's been fun. I've remembered what it's like to escape into a book - a good, interesting, not too difficult to digest tome. And it's been good research, I'll admit. The drive is still in me to write my own murder mystery. Because, clearly, I can't just enjoy something - I feel the innate need to use it in some way. I somehow believed them all when they said 'never stop learning'.