No walking today; just as well, it's raining. The leaves are the full green of early summer and the rain drips pleasantly from their curly, green cups. The travellers' ponies are sheltering beneath the electricity pylons and the grass is a rich minefield of little piles of dung.
Ragged. There is much to do. I've been wondering how my life keeps getting so full of stuff. Every time I try to bail it out, more things seem to flood in. Is it my fault? Why is the world so busy?
I know this is a theme I often ponder. Somehow, in some curious way, I don't feel permitted to have a life. And yet, I know more than anyone that this is unacceptable. So how is there still so much to do?
That sort of hopeless scooping-up of work at the bottom of a heavy vessel, is the definition of a Wednesday for me, at the moment. It is the middle of the week, the lowest point of the parabola, the nadir of the slowly swooping sides of the valley that lead back to the dizzy heights of the weekend.
It shouldn't be like this though, should it? I should be so planned and unflappably focused that even a dreary-looking Wednesday skips by with no more than a short sprint to the next rest night, or the nearest holiday.
Ragged, I am. Anyway, this isn't supposed to be Whingefest16. I guess for now, I'd better get on with it.
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