Betty has been remiss, tardy, absent, lazy; a slacker, a vacant space, a write-off, indeed, practically, blogwise, the mistress of her own demise. It isn’t that she’s been sitting about painting her toe-nails (a family term for absolute slothful indulgence, though, Betty hastens to point out, she does indeed keep her toe-nails polished most of the time: people do it around here, it lasts for weeks, and anyway, it’s a free country). No, Betty has been far from idle: in addition to working like a crazy woman seven days a week, she has also killed a friend’s car, which she does not recommend. It was no good anyway and it died, barely a fortnight before its owner was to return from overseas, which Betty felt was a bit rich. She has made romantic train journeys to the home of her youth, which is lovely fun; she has lectured for half a semester and worn stockings every Thursday.
She has also become gloriously engaged to the boy person friend. In a scene too tender for the interwebs, but which Betty will say was most romantically devised, the boy person friend, his knee, and a sapphire ring colluded to steal Betty’s heart, and her wobbly eyes, the late evening light, and the expansive park all welled up joyfully and said yes.
And in all the excitement she has not blogged at all, but she plans to make amends.