Too Much Time On My Hands, Really, For My Own Good

I woke up with the idea of writing tHE tOWER, my story on corporate life. It's a decision, something to write to, at the very least. I felt like I had the inspiration, I felt I had the will, I felt like I had the energy. I came down at 9am and set up my lap-top. Ready to go.

Now is my opportunity, I have just realised. Now is my time to write something, the perfect time. God knows I have had four months off already and if I had spent the time actually writing rather than telling myself I can’t do it, or I’m no good, or I’m just not going to get it done, or any number of things that I have told myself over the last four months, I could have banged out a draft of a novel, or a good portion of it, by now. (Maybe not a literary novel, but who cares about that. Commercial is where the money is anyway baby) I have, I have had, the perfect time to do such things and I have pissed it away yet again.

Or, do I simply conclude that I can’t do it and go and get a job?
Which is it to be? Make a decision?
Get on with it, give it a go? Give it up, give up on the idea?

Then Shane came down and said he was staying home. Oh bugger! NOOOOOO! Go to work, don’t stay here and bother me. This is my time. No, no no!
“I’m not well,” he said.
No well my arse, I thought.
He called his PA and told her he’d been sick all weekend. “Couldn’t sleep, haven’t been well all weekend.”
He headed back to bed. I wrote sitting at the coffee table for a while trying not to let the disturbance disturb me. Sometime around midday, I decided that I was going to head to my room so I didn’t have to talk to Shane if he got up ad came back downstairs and decided to yabber on.

Then he spent the rest of the afternoon arranging and rearranging god knows fucking what in his room. Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang all afternoon. I couldn’t understand what the hell he was doing? Even if I cleaned my room from top to bottom (I know people will be laughing now, Sam's mouth has dropped open) I couldn’t have made that noise for that extended length of time. He kept it up for hours and I was silently screaming to myself. What are you doing?

Of course, it was so bad and so disturbing that I fell asleep for hours in the middle of it. Ha, ha.

I managed to avoid him for pretty much the rest of the day, which just suited me fine. Oh, I don't know why. It is all me, of course. Just my naturally hermity traits.

I hear the sad clomp of trade’s feet on the stairs late in the evening. Still going, I think? Still trying to find someone to keep you warm? Still trying to find love?