A heads up: this post meanders.

Yesterday, I was nursing a bit of guilt. As part of my graded return to work, I only managed two four-hour shifts last week thanks to the hip injection. This week, it’s just one four-hour shift, sandwiched between Wednesday’s Ekka public holiday and a Friday psychology appointment to assess for early onset dementia.

Even though I’ve labelled myself Gen X for decades, I was surprised to realize my work ethos is far more Boomer. Turns out I sit right on the cusp—that late-Boomer, early-Gen-X overlap often dubbed “Generation Jones” (bizarre, given my surname). It blends Gen X’s cultural cynicism with that Boomer-driven pride in showing up, doing things thoroughly, and pushing through. That goes a long way toward explaining both the lingering work guilt and the path that led to my injuries in the first place.

On Monday afternoon, my husband suggested we do something the next day. My brain immediately ran its usual diagnostic: How far do I need to walk? How much will it cost? Can we take Stan?

We considered catching a ferry, but decided to test out the hip locally instead with a flat, 30-minute stroll to Riva Kitchen and Events at Northshore Hamilton.

It was an east-west breezy kind of day. I pushed Stan’s stroller to help with my balance, while he trotted in front in a futile attempt to wear him out before we arrived. In his dotage, dining out with Stan now involves managing a relentless demand for treats—there are never enough in the whole wide world to satisfy him. Today was no exception.

Sitting there enjoying a chicken schnitzel on a bed of arrabiata, topped with wilted greens and paired with an organic Italian Pinot Grigio, I caught sight of a brick chimney stack across the river. I mentioned to my husband that it reminded me of the old kiln chimneys in Sydney Park.

From there, my mind took a complete flight of fancy, drifting back to childhood Sunday outings from Birmingham—Hartlebury Castle with its bishop’s palace and gypsy caravans, the grand Queen Anne elegance of Hanbury Hall, the secret priest holes at Harvington Hall, and the rustic converted barn workshops of the Jinney Ring Craft Centre.

Funny how much life changes, even when you navigate it with a largely laissez-faire mentality.

A heads up: this post meanders.

Yesterday, I was nursing a bit of guilt. As part of my graded return to work, I only managed two four-hour shifts last week thanks to the hip injection. This week, it’s just one four-hour shift, sandwiched between Wednesday’s Ekka public holiday and a Friday psychology appointment to assess for early onset dementia.

Even though I’ve labelled myself Gen X for decades, I was surprised to realize my work ethos is far more Boomer. Turns out I sit right on the cusp—that late-Boomer, early-Gen-X overlap often dubbed “Generation Jones” (bizarre, given my surname). It blends Gen X’s cultural cynicism with that Boomer-driven pride in showing up, doing things thoroughly, and pushing through. That goes a long way toward explaining both the lingering work guilt and the path that led to my injuries in the first place.

On Monday afternoon, my husband suggested we do something the next day. My brain immediately ran its usual diagnostic: How far do I need to walk? How much will it cost? Can we take Stan?

We considered catching a ferry, but decided to test out the hip locally instead with a flat, 30-minute stroll to Riva Kitchen and Events at Northshore Hamilton.

It was an east-west breezy kind of day. I pushed Stan’s stroller to help with my balance, while he trotted in front in a futile attempt to wear him out before we arrived. In his dotage, dining out with Stan now involves managing a relentless demand for treats—there are never enough in the whole wide world to satisfy him. Today was no exception.

Sitting there enjoying a chicken schnitzel on a bed of arrabiata, topped with wilted greens and paired with an organic Italian Pinot Grigio, I caught sight of a brick chimney stack across the river. I mentioned to my husband that it reminded me of the old kiln chimneys in Sydney Park.

From there, my mind took a complete flight of fancy, drifting back to childhood Sunday outings from Birmingham—Hartlebury Castle with its bishop’s palace and gypsy caravans, the grand Queen Anne elegance of Hanbury Hall, the secret priest holes at Harvington Hall, and the rustic converted barn workshops of the Jinney Ring Craft Centre.

Funny how much life changes, even when you navigate it with a largely laissez-faire mentality.