It is amazing how time-consuming simple things can be. Shopping, for example, and getting from Point A to Point B. Waiting for people to arrive. Sorting through the mail. Writing Christmas cards and then realising that some recipients, there not having been contact between us all year, do not know what has happened to me in the meantime. Finding papers and documents relevant to this and that. Sitting thinking. Talking to people. Buying new bras. And a swimsuit. And a dress. Travelling by plane and taxi.
Catching up with the washing. Sorting out which bills need urgent attention. Organising the very overdue car service. Scrabbling around looking for the leftovers of a particular yarn, and then finding there is insufficient to finish off this piece of work, which probably no one will want anyway. Wondering how to cook a Christmas dinner without a functioning oven. Correcting the typing errors which the tiny Apple keyboard makes me make. Not seeing for some time this typing error dccuments. Wondering why it is that when I write, the letters appear in their correct order, but when I type the same words, they do not.
Pondering whether I urgently need new glasses. Wondering how on earth I used to manage to work, raise a family, do all the housework, cooking and gardening and have a social life, when my days are now filled with so many apparently minor things.
They do say, don't they, that work expands to fill the time available. A depressing thought, this!
I am back from my family gathering in Melbourne. I don't think I am good company, as yet. Nor have I obeyed the injunction on the sympathy card I bought myself many months ago, which said "Pull yourself together."
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1 comment:
"I was too busy to work," my husband sometimes said.
I am now quite familiar with what he meant.
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