Both occasions called for a horizontal stint in the steam room, interrupted only by an over-jealous gym-harpy coming in and actually turning it on.
And since I got a ‘proper’ job with ‘proper’ hours, so I can concentrate on writing in the evenings and weekends, I have failed to even switch my laptop on.
What the hell is it with me and my friend, procrastination?
Why do we run so happily together? He is always there, whispering in my ear (before I go and spoil it all by doing something stupid like, I don’t know, getting off my arse): “Do it tomorrow, sweetie. Or better still, next week.”
I try to shrug him off but his breath in my ear feels warm and with his comforting tone, I feel secure.
“Are you sure?” I ask him.
“Of course. You can always do anything tomorrow, it will be better. You can focus then.”
I’m dubious of course, sometimes even purchasing a new notebook, a book on photography – coloured pencils – I square my shoulders, ready to start something, anything – and then he smiles at me in his way and I lose my strength.
“Tomorrow then.” I look at my shuffling feet.
“Very good,” he says, “you won’t regret it.”