I’ve barely left the flat today. I would like to say I consider this a success. The weather outside is, I would say, unhappy. It’s not terrible and angry and full of rain and bluster and thunder. It’s just grey, drizzly and generally not keen to be out of bed on a Sunday and so making things terrible for everyone else too. It’s somehow warm but looks cold, and it’s raining enough to be irritating but not enough to warrant a jacket. It’s so very British and I’ve got no want to be in it. I also have a cold, but my cold, much like the weather, is neither here nor there. It hasn’t left me bedridden, or guzzling Lemsip like it’s the only known antidote to a poison I’ve been tricked into taking. Instead it’s just made me sniffly, with a slight cough, and general inability to do much. Everything I’ve tried to focus on is slightly harder than it should be. Not difficult, mind. Just, well, annoying. I’ve also been away from home a lot this past month, and despite my attempts to hit 10,000 steps a day for health purposes, or the fact that my home is devoid of healthy food, I have convinced myself that I deserve a day entirely at home, with my demi cold, avoiding the grumbly weather. All of these, I think, are fairly valid reasons to justify a day at home. Yet, now, by 10pm at night, I am annoyed that I’ve wasted today.
My day has been spent watching the political programs on a Sunday morning, writing a few wry tweets, any genuine spark of clever joke idea hampered by a layer of snot slowing down my brain. Then I spent some time looking online at horrific events around the world, reading replies from horrific people who are all certain that no one is saying enough about it, or are saying too much about it, or are doing the wrong thing about it, or are being sanctimonious and condescending about doing the right thing about it. Then I had cheese on toast because I am living the dream. Then I half watched television while looking at my phone, unable to concentrate on either because of each other being a distraction. And now I’m here, feeling guilty that I’ve done nothing of any use to anyone at all. A real hard worker would’ve ploughed on through today. I’d have used the quiet day to write that short film I want to make, or start work on the novel I want to write, or write a status that might change the way someone thinks about the world or at the very least done some admin, emailed a friend I’ve meant to for ages, or written an interesting blog. But nope. None of that. What a terrible waste of a day. I feel awful about it. Time is only finite. There’s so much to see and do, so many people to meet, so much to create. Yet I’ve barely moved from the sofa except to get a tissue to half-blow my nose into because even my cold can’t be arsed.
It’s possible I’m only feeling guilty because somewhere in my head that makes me feel better about enjoying days like today. I would be terrified to find out anyone had discovered that I enjoy doing nothing, that I’ve said at least 15 times out loud today ‘I can’t be bothered to do anything.’ That I only had cheese on toast because after searching through recipes with my wife – who has the same cold I do – we chose something to cook. Then 5 minutes later decided it was too much effort. So popped to the shops to buy ingredients for an easier thing to cook. Then when it got to dinner time decided that was too much effort and so made cheese on toast. I’d be horrified to realise that someone had rumbled that I originally wanted to write this blog about people always complaining about political correctness ruining comedy, or my thoughts on the Labour conference last week, or Ireland, or performing to 1600 people one night then 40 the next. But instead I couldn’t remotely bring myself to think through any of those things so settled for this total careless expenditure of words. Or that the tv show I didn’t even have the focus for was a cartoon. I wouldn’t want anyone to think or assume that in fact, deep beneath this workaholic outward demeanour, that actually, I spend most days really wishing I could do a lot of nothing, but mostly can’t. I don’t have sick days being self employed, or weekends, or holiday pay. So today, when I can temporarily get away with it, it’s probably best if I just tell everyone my sick note, accompanied by the pretend charade that actually I’m very, very upset I wasn’t more useful today. Really, I feel awful about it and I promise I’ll do better tomorrow. If I’m feeling better, obviously.
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