Up until very recently I would've said the worst thing ever to be would be a housewife. Now I find myself - to the horror of my inner feminist - really enjoying the time I spend cooking, sorting out the house and garden, and generally looking after my boys. (Boys being one lanky bloke and two bunnies. I'm not sure I'd feel as warm and fuzzy about it if there really were real, live boys - or girls even - in the equation. How mothers cope is beyond me.)
But for the past few days I've been throwing myself into housewife mode with gusto while I still have the chance. Soon The List Of Things To Do For Edinburgh will arrive and I will have to get back to the old computer-shaped grindstone.
My greatest achievement has been totally sorting out the spare room, which contains millions of boxes, odd bits of furniture and several laundry bags that still hold the majority of my wardrobe. What once was higgeldy piggeldy mess is now a neat and tidy stack over on one side of the room. You can even close the door and everything. I keep wandering in there just to marvel at it's neatness.
And I've really attacked the garden, planting my first early and some second early potatoes and my onion sets out there, plus re-potting the tomato seedlings and moving the baby carrot, beetroot and radish plants outside in containers on the patio.
The best thing about all this is that I really feel, for the first time in ages, that I am accomplishing something. And it's something useful and verging on worthwhile. I feel like I could take on anything right now and, if not win, then kick some arse at least. Woo-hooo!