A dulling fatigue – that’s been the hallmark of this working week. Some time ago, Rory and I spoke about the process of recrimination that occurs when you have food poisoning, about the tracing of steps in order to find the guilty morsel that passed your lips and evacuated your bowels. So it is the same with fatigue.
Amounts of sleep, consumption of water, lack of exercise; all plausible. More likely is this waiting place I find myself in. Unable to commit to one country, unable to leave another – plans for Berlin have ground to a halt. Cara and I are still going, but have too much time to prepare, to overthink and worry each other.
Too late in the day, too late for all this nonsense. How can one expect to pull cohesion from the fug of a Friday, lest it should be any more than absolute wandering nonsense. Writing to clear the head, writing as a catalyst to action, writing to fill the time – but writing to elaborate on a day where nothing was achieved? An insult.
Still there’s chess to look forward to, and a gallery opening, and the competitive exercise of tomorrow’s football. Perhaps there will be drinks on Saturday night too, with friends in a quiet pub. I should like to have something definite planned out for moving away by Monday, either a flight or a house, otherwise this week has crumpled in the face of itself.
And why did I not write yesterday?