in which much excitement happens, only I’m not excited
I’m suffering from an attack of the blahs. I’ve got things on the go and have been doing interesting things, but somehow all I can muster is the sound of a balloon slowly deflating. A balloon half-full of stale lung air and spit condensation that is slowly sticking to itself as the air imperceptibly leaches from its knotted end. This is not what you want when work has finally calmed to a standstill, leaving time for extracurricular fun, games and adventure:
- Last weekend I went for a long walk around the outskirts of Oxford. The book said that it might be muddy. In the end A1 and I took off our shoes, rolled up our trousers and waded through knee-high and exceptionally cold water; it was the only way we were going to get home before midnight (A2 chose to wear sodden boots instead). We finished the walk in the dark, meandering along pavements thronged with too-clever-for-their-own-good youngsters dressed up for a night of debauchery. The bastards.
- On Monday one of my favourite workmates quit in a spectacular fashion: by e-mail stating that by the time his boss was reading it he’d be halfway to Guatemala.
- Last night I got taken to the Palace of Westminster by a colleague to meet her friend Tony Benn. That was spiffing. He’s just as you’d expect and the inside of the seat of government is pretty cool too.
- Tonight we will be in the pub with the German techno goth contingent pretending to be people we’re not – yes, FateStorm game testing is back on the agenda.
- Tomorrow, this office being an outpost of the US of A, we’re having a potluck Thanksgiving lunch. I have decided, after much agonising, to make a Casa Moro recipe: warm pumpkin and chickpea salad with tahini.
- Tomorrow TA finds out whether or not he’s going to be sent for a special stay at a special place for special people!
So much that I could obsess over, write about and describe, but instead I find myself whining my new catchphrase.
“Don’t wanna!” I say to TA as I try to drag my leaden, lumpen limbs out of bed. “Don’t wanna,” I moan to myself as I think about writing. Don’t wanna, don’t wanna, don’t wanna.
“What do you wanna?” asks a bewildered TA.
what I wanna: option A
A smallholding with geese, cows, sheep, pigs and chickens; a vegetable garden; a library; an open fire; an aga; a radio permanently tuned to Radio 4 with perfect reception and extra helpings of the Now Show; a well-stocked cellar and pantry; size 10 hips; a pushbike with one of those ace little trailers...
what I wanna: option B
All the pork pies I can eat, washed down with all the red wine I can drink; consumed from the comfort of my own bed with a limitless supply of good books to read. Pillows. Chocolate and cakes and white bread. Cheese. Sleep. Gin. Sex. Inertia.
TA says I have the most well-developed id in the world; that I’m a simple soul, really only concerned with feeding my desires. It’s hard to disagree.
It seems that no matter how long I sleep or how I try to pep myself up, I can’t escape this soggy balloon state. And so as I trudge through the list of things I have to do, the mantra thrums through my cabbage-sludge-filled head: I don’t wanna, don’t wanna, don’t wanna.