Monday, 5 January 2009
Christmas no More
After all that anticipation and excitement, planning, shopping, decorating and cooking; thank you, you too and the joy of a fridge full of well it has to be eatens; the holiday is over. This morning my alarm went off at 7:15 and for a good few seconds I couldn't imagine why. All number of explanations – it's a terrible dream, it's broken, the demon has come – flashed through me before I realised the ghastly truth: I had to take Bob to work.
It took forty five minutes of snooze button pressing before I managed to garner enough oomph to stagger out of bed, pull on some clothes (cold jeans, eugh!), and fill the kettle. Tea, a fag, and the fan heater that lives under my desk seemed snatched away as eight-thirty came, and outside had to be faced.
Bob safely delivered I headed home and as I drove thoughts, like caffeine fuelled kids, of must-dos fought for attention: search the house for that old book of Winnie the Pooh stories; complete proposal form for university's ethics committee; write article for the student rag; compose begging letter to 'registry' about lack of fee paying ability; speak to school about those bloody February classes (I've been trying to do this for weeks, though not, it has to be said, with any force); deChristmas the house
(chuck tree out the window, take down cards, put away baubles, vacuum up glitter), and search freezer for something to feed the boys tonight. Write something.
Writing, like exercise, is something I need to do for general health purposes, but I just can't seem to work it in. Mind and matter are getting flabby. And the flabbier they get the more difficult it is to use them. All I really want to do is lie on the couch in front of the fire and read. But I can't. Why?
Will someone please remind me?