I suspect, could be wrong mind, but I suspect that one of the main reasons old(er) people turn to drink is because they’re impossibly bored. I’ve definitely found, for myself, that retirement days sometimes seem to stretch into oblivion and beyond, and I wonder what on earth I can usefully do with myself.
But not today. Today I’ve finished up my creative tasks and I have at least three particular jobs that I must embark upon. Tasks that are more administrative in nature, organising, that kind of thing. The sort of thing I might have done when I was employed, or being a baker’s boy, or doing some heavy volunteering stint. But scarcely at all anymore. And yet the tasks are so mundane: tidy up my laptop desktop for one. Collate all the writerly submissions from the two writers groups I’m part of and think about constructive comments — that’s two. And finally, open up a couple of archives from the past twenty years to see if I can realistically embark upon a history of those times, times that still resonate but without a concise documentation risk being lost in the swirls of time. Oh, and then the normal things we’re associating with the ‘holidays at Spring Cottage:’ the walk into the marshland; the re-potting of the new plants; the couple of emails that keep me in touch with family and friends; the settling down in the evening to watch a new series.
My ambition is to embark upon my historical novel again when things feel that they’ve settled down beyond this current transience, this back-and-forth lifestyle. I’m looking forward to that too as a prolonged exercise. But today I work through my list of admin chores.
By the time the day is done, and we’re comfortably ensconced with a chilled glass of white wine, not large, when the washing-up is finished and the morning things are set out, and the next episode of Borgen begins, I shall be pleased with myself if I’ve actually done something.
And that’s got to be the best way to wrap up a day.