Peanut and plum.

This morning I wake up at 6:11am, check my watch - which I now wear while sleeping, something I always hated the idea of but these days I'm enjoying seeing the little lilac wheel that reports my hours of sleep, my hours of comatose bliss before reality wakes me and everything sinks in all over again - and I roll my eyes because of course, I've woken up 34 minutes before my alarm. There's no hope of getting back to sleep, so I take my temperature for that perverted purple app, pop a Levothyroxine out of its plastic packet, roll out of bed and stagger to the shower. 

I do not live here. Photo by lens clickk.

I'm listening to a rerun episode of the podcast that got me through lockdown. They're getting lazy now, I think. Their original gimmick of rewatching episodes of the show they both starred in 20 years ago - commenting on the plot, the characters, the costumes, and letting us peek behind the curtain at the creaky old hospital they filmed in and what really went on behind the goofy camera - has expired, and now they're just doing interviews with other famous people they've got some tenuous connection to, or asking experts for health advice, or repeating 'classic' episodes from their early days. Recently they reposted 103 and I'm halfway through it before I pause and briefly reflect on how I'd most likely listened to this the first time round when I was going on my secret 6am walks along the seafront, trying to find a different route every time and marvelling at how confused my legs felt to be moving so quickly and for such a long time after weeks of stillness and stiffness. 

I'm going to be late, I realise as I spread crunchy peanut butter and plum jam on my hasty crumpets. My resolution for this year was to be on time, that was it, just be on time, for friends and work and other things varying in their levels of importance - c'mon, me. It's not that hard. Actually, it is very hard. 

I get to the workshop space and find a young - I'm assuming - man outside, with floppy warm brown hair, wearing a dark khaki detective mac that hangs almost down to his ankles. A suitcase beside him. He recoils slightly at the sight of me - maybe he doesn't care for dungarees. I peer through the window to be let in, and when I am, I ask if the human outside belongs to anyone. 'No, not me.' 

I was on a quay in Dorset yesterday. And last week. I also spent the night in Brighton over the weekend, and tonight I'm off to London until Friday. Time is moving very fast, and I'm aware of my over-scheduling, of course I am, but I can't stop. I keep saying 'next week I'll do less, next week I'll have free time, next week we can do that,' but then I sabotage myself by planning more things and cramming them all in, not allowing any room to breathe. Maybe I'll get better someday. Maybe I'll finally crack the code. Until then, I'm putting my head down and driving straight into the chaos. 

G. x