This week I finally took some very overdue long service leave. And when I say overdue, I mean the kind of overdue where the leave balance was probably sitting in the system wearing a cardigan, asking if anyone was ever going to collect it.

I had grand visions, of course. Rest. Relaxation. Possibly becoming the sort of person who drinks tea slowly while staring out a window and thinking deep, elegant thoughts. Instead, the week became a tasting platter of adulting, errands, health nonsense, emotional damage and the universe whispering, “You wanted time off? Cute.”

Long Service Leave: The Dream Versus the Reality

There is something deeply satisfying about taking leave that has been owed to you for so long it feels less like time off and more like retrieving buried treasure. Except instead of a glittering chest of gold, you get a calendar full of appointments, cleaners coming to clean, phone calls, and jobs you have been pretending not to see for months.

Because naturally, the minute you get time away from work, your brain goes, “Excellent. Now we can finally deal with every boring, practical, grown-up thing we have been avoiding.” Adulting arrived wearing sensible shoes and carrying a clipboard.

So yes, I did some responsible-person things. Not glamorous things. Not Instagram-worthy things. The sort of things that make you feel vaguely smug for thirty seconds and then immediately tired. Still, they were necessary, and future me will probably be grateful once she stops being dramatic about it.

Meanwhile, My Body Chose Violence

And then, because apparently the week did not already have enough plot, my body decided to contribute its own dramatic subplot. Specifically, the worst women’s health issues I have had in a long time.

Honestly, rude. There I was, attempting to have a peaceful week off, and my reproductive system apparently saw an opening for interpretive theatre. Not a quiet little background performance, either. No, this was full production value: lighting, sound effects, emotional monologue, and possibly a fog machine.

I am being direct because there is no point pretending it was just “a bit uncomfortable.” It was awful. But I am also choosing to keep it light because sometimes the only way through bodily betrayal is snacks, pain relief, inappropriate jokes, and strongly worded internal feedback to the management.

A Sombre One for the Gen X Heart

On a genuinely sad note, this week also brought the reported passing of Dolly Parton, Tim Curry and Peter Cullen. That is not a sentence my poor Gen X heart was prepared to process in one go.

Dolly was rhinestones, warmth, wit, big-heartedness and songs that somehow managed to be both larger than life and deeply human. Tim Curry was chaos, charisma, camp, menace, mischief and theatrical brilliance all wrapped in one unforgettable eyebrow raise. Peter Cullen was the voice of Optimus Prime, which means for many of us he was not just a performer; he was part of the emotional architecture of childhood.

It felt like the universe gathered up a handful of icons and said, “Here, remember mortality?” No thank you. Return to sender. My inner child is sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by VHS tapes, humming dramatically and refusing to make eye contact.

There is a special kind of grief that comes with losing people who shaped the background music, movie nights, cartoons and cultural wallpaper of your life. You may not have known them personally, but their work lived in your home, your memories and your sense of humour. This week, that hit hard.

Death received a lot of formal complaints this week and is currently on a performance improvement plan. Depending on how Death improves — also known as not taking anyone else before year’s end — Death may or may not be fired.

But Spring Has Sprung

Happily, because life is never only one thing, spring has arrived. And I love spring. I know every season has its fans, but spring is absolutely my favourite. It has optimism. It has colour. It has that little lift in the air that makes everything feel slightly more possible.

Yes, there is the small matter of hayfever lurking in the wings, ready to leap out like an overenthusiastic pollen goblin. But I am choosing hope. I am choosing blossoms. I am choosing sunshine that does not yet feel like the surface of the sun. I am choosing the smug joy of noticing longer days and pretending I am now a person who will go for brisk meaningful walks.

Spring feels like the world taking a deep breath and saying, “Right, let’s try that again.” After a week of life admin, body drama and pop culture heartbreak, I will take that little seasonal reset with both hands.

Two More Weeks on the Horizon

The good news is that I am due another two weeks of recreational leave, and I am very much looking forward to it. I am trying not to put too much pressure on it, because clearly the universe likes to hear plans and then immediately improvise jazz over the top of them.

Still, I am hopeful. Maybe those two weeks will include rest. Maybe they will include nice weather, soft mornings, decent coffee, and fewer errands. Maybe my body will read the room and behave itself. Maybe I will even achieve that elusive state known as “relaxed adult with clean laundry.”

For now, though, this week has been a lot. It was overdue leave that turned into a mixed bag. It was adulting with a side of cramps. It was grief for voices, faces and songs that meant more than I probably realised. But it was also spring arriving, gently and brightly, reminding me that not every ending gets the final word.

So, here’s to long service leave, however chaotic. Here’s to the icons who helped raise us from the television, radio and movie screen. Here’s to spring, even if it makes my sinuses question their career choices. And here’s to the next two weeks of leave, which I am formally requesting be restful, gentle and significantly less weird.