When tunnels meet beneath the mountains

This time of year is gorgeous. If only all my current circumstances matched the weather.

I worked yesterday (is there anything more drear than watching Sunday slip by through your office window) and today I faced the consequences of some bad decisions not once, not twice but three times. I ask you: is it better to say sorry too late than never say it all?

I'm not certain there is a right answer for that. There is, however, the remnants of a rather wonderful Saturday to consider:

Milk, no sugar.
My new silver pendant from Etsy. I love Etsy so much that I sometimes fantasise it's a country I might emigrate to one day.

The skirt I wore on Sunday as compensation for having to spend a glorious day at work. I love the colours.

It was a $4 find at the Buddhist op shop. I only bought it for the colour, because the shape didn't suit me - at least not until it occurred to me that I should just have the skirt hemmed. Sometimes the truth is hidden, but when it comes to cute vintage skirts I believe the bleeding obvious is the often the right answer.

My hydrangea, which has survived some of the most awful attacks from my over-zealous gardening brother. (One of my brothers makes random visits to my house when I am at work and tidies my garden for me. He has nearly killed this plant three times. Each time it manages to right itself and goes on to bloom like this, although lately I fancy that it stares at me from under its leaves, muttering "You people are PEASANTS.") (But yes, my brother is fabulous.)

And I started a new journal. It was supposed to filled with sharp, tender, wry and entirely original observations and yet today - six pages in - I find it filled only with the poems I swore I was never going to write again. I don't know how that happened; I keep thinking I should file a report about it with someone.

But seriously - is it better to say sorry too late than never at all?