A Day in the Life

It was so obvious I almost overlooked it completely.

You see, as I was climbing the stairs a few moments ago wondering what on earth I could blog about it suddenly occurred to me that you are no doubt wondering what I actually get up to on a daily basis when I’m allegedly on summer holiday. No? Well, single-minded man that I am I’m going to press on regardless and let you in to the secrets of how I spend my time…

Picture the scene: my wife scurrying around to get ready for work while I curl up on the bed keeping my eyes as tightly shut as possible. It’s a nice scene and I maintain it until the moment the front door clicks into place. Then, against all the odds, my eyes spring open (yes, eyes do spring – look it up) and I switch my phone on to check that nothing of global importance has occurred over the past eight hours that might affect what I choose to do next.

On arrival downstairs, my cat inquires as to whether it might be possible perhaps, if she were ever so good, for her to have a second breakfast. Disappointed at my inevitable refusal, she slumps off to the living room to lay down for the day while I do my best to make some sort of stab at eating something.

We’re back up the stairs now (a lot of my day seems to involve stairs) and the laptop is being switched on in anticipation of today being the day that I finally write that magic sentence, that life-changing paragraph, that viral tweet that will have the world’s media queuing up outside my front door to catch a snap of me in my PJs.

After 45 minutes or so of what I like to call ‘general surfing’, it occurs to me that I should probably start writing something. I look at the clock – if it is not on the hour or 15, 30 or 45 past the hour, I simply cannot begin. I don’t make the rules up; it’s just the way it is.

I head on over to Twitter and tweet something very much like the sentences above, wondering if there’ll be someone out there who might come ever so close to a chuckle at my worldly wisdom. Once I have assured myself that there are probably dozens skipping over the post without a moment’s notice, I reopen the document of my latest novel (which also begins with the letter ‘A’ – that’s exclusive news, so keep it to yourself…) and re-read what I wrote the day before. Then it occurs to me – I could enjoy reading this even more if I did it on my Kindle – and so as the document travels through cyber-space I check out the response to my tweet, draft and redraft a few follow-up tweets and then delete in a flurry of self-doubt.

Time then passes. Hopefully, at some stage during this time, writing is done. Reading normally happens before writing and then tends to occur during it and after it too. Sometimes the writing is rapid and I clock up 1,000 words without realising it. Other times…well, I’ll let you finish that sentence yourself.

Lunch occurs when it dawns on me that it is past 2pm and I’m still sat in front of the laptop without a sandwich in my hand. Lunch is a dangerous thing – not so much the eating but the post-lunch malaise and procrastination it induces. Sure, the eating is enjoyable (perhaps even essential) but when a glance at the clock tells you that we’re now pushing 3.30 and I still haven’t returned to the writing then it’s time to admit that lunch is causing you a problem.

So, after losing a few games on FIFA – and, yes, losing is exactly what I’ve been doing recently (not that I’m remotely bothered about it, oh no, not one bit) – I decide to head on back up stairs (there’s the stairs again) and re-open the document. After 30 minutes or so of checking Twitter and occasionally taking the plunge and adding a comment of my own, I give the typing another go.

This is where it all goes a bit blurry. Some days, the fingers skip across the keys with reckless abandon, producing something that actually makes me smile, if not giggle to the empty room around me. Other days…well, I think we’ve been to this sentence before…

Then, just as I’m in the middle of my best paragraph of the day, the door will open and my wife will return, calling up the stairs (are you keeping count?) at the exact moment that I am trying to work out what the next ‘killer phrase’ should be. Loyal, loving husband that I am, I bound down the stairs (5?), throw my arms around her, ask her how her day was, make her a coffee, talk through the options for the dinner I will cook any moment now and will nod, smile and say ‘yeah, my day’s been OK, I got some writing done’ before asking if she minds if I skip back up the stairs (keep counting) to finish off my sentence.

And now I enter my most productive period of the day, reeling off word after word just when I should be cooking and conversing. In some cruel twist of fate, I am now more focussed and ‘in the zone’ (whatever that means) exactly when I need to put that world behind me for now and curl up on the sofa. Despair sets in. Hunger swiftly follows. Dinner is made, served, eaten and reflected upon. The evening begins.

I could tell tales of films watched, books read and outings undertaken but that is all for another day. The writing day is over and now all that awaits me is a sleepless start to the night as I think through all the things I’d like to put down on paper (well, keyboard and screen) the moment I awake.

Now, aren’t you glad you asked the question?