I’ve been working flat out all morning, hair yanked up and sitting askew in a knot, glasses on crooked, dressed in ratty yoga pants and hardly anything else, writing about my favorite topics under a (self-imposed but nevertheless urgent) deadline. The best sort of day!
When I noted physical demands like “eat food” and “drink fluids” I shuffled into some clothes and went to Bacchanalia to buy water. Oh, and just in case anyone wondered, the water in the tank on my boat is not potable. I have to buy, even when I refrain from imbibing bubbles – and yes, I will in fact cycle half way across the city to buy from an independent shop.
It was only 11 AM so the girl at the counter squinted at me and asked So do you have the day off then?
I looked up, down, around, pondered the truthful answer, remembered that I am having lunch with David in an hour which counts as “leisure” and mumbled Erm, ah, sort of, eh, no.
Why, oh why can’t I answer the question, given that writing and publishing have constituted my day job for well over a decade now? I have no idea, but the week in news has made me pine for, and simultaneously rejoice leaving, the United States. Like you wouldn’t believe.