Many years ago, my handbag was stolen from my house. I forgot all about it until this week. I was getting ready for work, finishing some stuff off at home before heading into the office, aka The Soul Destroyer.
I went to find my handbag but it was nowhere to be seen. I searched every inch of the little terrace house that we lived in before I realised that I must have left it on the table. The front door was opened so I figured someone had walked past, seen it and pinched it while I was down the back of the house on the computer.
Bloody hell, losing your hand bag is a total pain in the ass, am I right?
Cops were called and came, but of course there was nothing much they could do except take my details and basically tell me that I was an idiot. I phoned work and they were quite good about it and, because of course the handbag had my car keys in them, I was told to take the day off and get it all sorted.
I went to my desk to pull out my chair when I noticed the handbag sitting all perky like on it. I swear it was winking at me.
This week I lost my blogging mojo. I searched everywhere for it, before giving up and deciding it would turn up somewhere least expected.
The boys were at their nagging worst this morning. They do not appreciate nice cushions. The only time the fighting stopped was when I went to the toilet and later, when I had a shower, because they both came into the bathroom to ask me mundane questions.
It was too early to go to school, but I figured since Barry O'Farrell had cut 1.7 Billion Dollars from the NSW Education Budget, the last he could do was provide a frazzled mumma with 5 minutes of free Before School Care.
I will make a confession here. I sometimes listen to Alan Jones on the way to school, because it helps my with my inferior intelligence complex. What? It makes me feeeeeel better.....
So Jonesy was harking on about the price of beer when I pulled up at the lights. I noticed a very handsome Indian man in his early twenties wearing a Woolies uniform. He was waving to a girl on the other side of the street. She was pretty, in a stocky plain milk maidy kind of way, and was obviously off to work in an office somewhere.
She crossed the street and I watched their interaction carefully. You could just tell that they fancied the pants off each other. There was she, touching her hair a lot and smiling, while the bloke was clearly enamoured with her.
People watching is the best, hey?
After a short exchange, she bade him farewell and kept making her way down the street, while his eyes remained firmly fixed on her retreating posterior. I watched him carefully, wondering what he was thinking.
Then, quick as a flash, he looked at me looking at him and all of a sudden I felt like a full pervert. Embarrassed, I flicked Alan off and got busy fiddling with the dashboard.
The lights changed and he bounded across the street in front of Sonia. When he reached the other side he stopped and gave the girl one last good stare.
And it was at that point that my blogging mojo came flooding back to me in huge crashing waves.
Everything is a story, you just need to know how to look at it.
Have you ever lost your mojo?
Where did you find it?