Wasting the Precious Stuff

Simon is in Ingurland at the mo’, and I am in the middle of a few days of lonesomeness, which feel both too long and too short at the same time. I miss Simon, (in a “…the bed’s too big; the frying pan’s too wide” sort of way), and yet I relish having some Just-Me time, against the pleasant backdrop of empty quietness. And in between the missing and the relishing, I feel a pressure to somehow make the most of these few days alone. Oh, what to do? What to do?

I am torn between trying to Get Stuff Done, so that Simon will be pleased and impressed upon his return, and Doing Absolutely Nothing in a Totally Self-indulgent, Bugger-the-Routine manner, that I find impossible to do – or to enjoy doing – when Simon is here being busy, busy, busy all the time. So far, I have managed only to vacillate between the two options, with such an unerring level of commitment to the Demon of Irresolution, that I have achieved neither productiveness nor happy idleness. I am, like Macbeth, infirm of purpose.

The only good thing to come out of my submission to the overwhelm of procrastination is this blog post. I am choosing to write this now because it provides a welcome distraction from my waversomeness – the evidence of which surrounds me like a landscape of accusation.

The sitting room is in a half-cleared state following my abortive efforts to prepare it for The Painting of the Walls. I gave up when I realised that the old TV is too heavy for me to move out on my own, and the walls and ceiling all need cleaning before I can start painting (“How tedious… I will have to get the vacuum cleaner out from behind the freezer in the bathroom,and turn off the electric heater so I don’t overload the circuit, and change the bag in the vacuum cleaner first because it is full and smells like a dead dog, and look for the new bags because I can’t remember where I put them, and surely it must be time for a cup of tea and a little sit down….”) The vacuum cleaner has made it as far as the kitchen, where it now lies, filling the small floor space with its wayward hose and reproach, awaiting the discovery of the elusive new bags and the abatement of the dead-dog odour.

And through the window I can see the the rake and shovel leaning insolently against the wheelbarrow, sneering at my dilatory attempt to keep up with the endless task of llama-poo management, which I gave up after only two barrow-loads, because my shovel-holding wrist went all feeble on me, and because every time I thought I’d finished, I spied another little fresh pile that needed barrowing away to the poo-stash mountain at the edge of the field, and the Sisyphean nature of the task whacked me smack in the middle of my faltering motivation, causing me to stumble, stop and wonder (yet again) at the complete and utter absurdity of human existence.

There was a time when I knew how to work. There was a time when I knew how to be idle. There was a time when I was so busy doing both that I didn’t have time to fritter away time worrying about how best to use it. And damn it, this post has sort of come to an end, and I will have to decide what to do next. Perhaps I’ll have another little cup of tea while I think about it….. What to do? Oh, what to do?