Today, again, I have had little to do. And I have been bored. I have checked for new emails and replied to them at once. I have emptied the dishwasher and refilled it. I have done the washing…I drew the line at ironing, I was not that bored. I have read the papers. I have read the news online. I have read blogs, and rechecked to see if new comments had been added. I have picked vegetables and taken them to the shop to be sold. I have hung around in the shop to chat to customers. I have returned to the shop to restock the shelves. I have been to the church, to practise hymns for tomorrow.
It’s a bit worrying. Usually, I welcome idleness. I lounge around, satisfied. I indulge myself in lazy frivolity. I relax.
So, what’s happened? Have I suddenly discovered a work ethic? Energy? A compulsion to keep busy? Surely not. I’m a little old to change my skin, or even my spots.
Tomorrow morning, I’ll be rather busier than I want to be, and yet I know I will cope. I’ll go out in the afternoon, but I’ll be in company so I won’t be bored by myself.
Normally, I’m slightly busier than I want to be. I have, in the past, longed for August when the appointments dry up and I can wind down for a while. In the last few years, I haven’t even had that though – two family wedding parties here in successive Augusts took a lot of work, although they were a huge pleasure of course. Maybe it’s a lack of worry? I’m so tranquil that I don’t need to wind down?
I’m alarmed to think that this might be so. Don’t, dear hearts, let me take on something else. I want to give up things, not add to them. Remind me to stop, if I sound keen, and lie down until the feeling goes away. I recognise the signs, and I don’t want to do it.