snoozy afternoon

I've taken a leaf from the cat's book and stretched out on the couch. The rain is erratic. The house is empty apart from myself and the cats. I chopped a trailer full of wood this morning but have not worked on the book. Last night's wine and whisky lingers like mist in my head. I've put on a cozy jumper and am thinking about buying a pair of slippers. There's a smile on my face as I recall Zippy the dog leaping for the cork from a wine bottle. Today's landmark decision is whether to have a nap or a snack. Maybe both.

can't wipe the smile (and don't want to)

I have a job.

And it's a writing job.

That makes me a writer. Like, really a writer.

It's not for The New Yorker or anything, but it's writing.

And they pay me.

I'm rather chuffed. No dust on me.

Back to Normal?

Pause to consider old sayings. Their inner meanings are sometimes misleading. I used the term, "when the dust settles" yesterday (or the day before - perhaps both). I used it innocently, chatting to a friend who was very busy, making plans to make plans. She noted that that dust doesn't settle these days. I shrugged at that and jotted a mental note to make plans to make plans when she was merely busy, and not very busy.

Moving twice in a fortnight, sorting out a job interview, trying to find a car, trying to write my book, getting used to living in the country, organising my three top secret projects, catching up with friends, sorting out bank accounts so that I can live, contemplating my own flat; life has been perpetual motion of late. I saw this coming week as the beginning of routine. Something to settle into with a cup of tea and a piece of toast with butter and marmite. The bank's sorted, I've found a car, there's time to write, I like living in the country and my interview's tomorrow. Slowly but surely, every thing is slipping into place. It's like the last piece of a jigsaw. There's a a satisfying click. My dust's settling. Then I get unsettled. Because while this week is settled, next week is a mystery. There's fear and anticipation and the temptation to ignore it, and settle anyway. Sleep till nine, go for a run, get some writing done and ignore everything else. But I'm up at seven every morning, fingers tingling, feet itching, mind sprinting, wondering what to do first and what to do next.

So the dust isn't settling. Nor am I. It's not a bad thing. When dust settles, it means that something, somewhere, is dirty and inert.

And that's not very nice, is it?