It is not a good thing when Friday inspires the kind of dread in you that is only matched by dreaming that you need to run away from terrible danger and you cannot feel your legs.
It is already after lunch, I am going for drinks at Giles at 4.30-ish, and I aim to squeeze in a session at the gym before I go (on account of the fact that I have become enormously fat since I turned 40 and alcohol consumption is simply one area of my diet where I cannot reduce my calorie intake because whisky makes me feel better than chocolate).
That leaves me 45 minutes in which to completely plan a two-day TV shoot next weekend, make a sizeable dent in the reading I have to do for my assignment due on the 9th, prepare for class next Thursday, write a blog and speak to Barbara about holding the fort while she goes away next week. Fortunately I read all the TV documentary treatments for the mentorship progamme this morning, or I really would have had a lot to do.
This is clearly ridiculous. What can anybody achieve in 45 minutes? Forty-five minutes cannot possibly claim to be AN ACTUAL amount of time, honestly. Nothing meaningful can be achieved in its duration. In fact, things you can do in 45 minutes should not make it into the history books and probably not even onto the list of things you will remember when you are old.
For example, it is barely enough time to have impromptu sex on the dining room table, if there was anybody around to have such sex with. I could call someone, but he is likely to promise to be “five.. six minutes”, and only arrive an hour later after continually swearing on the phone that he is “on his way” and “already in Parkhurst”.
I suspect that randomly available 45-minute instalments in the course of the average day is the reason why so many women buy Cosmopolitan or its equivalent. One can certainly work your way through its pages in very little time. I have proposed some stories to such girly periodicals and they don’t publish any story longer than a 1000 words in total, broken down by various subheadings every two paragraphs or so. NOBODY expects any aficionado to read beyond the headings. All that remains then is to despair over the pictures of waifs with legs-up-to-heaven in Ferragamo. Those girls who “settle in” for an evening with their favourite monthly and a cup of chamomile tea (as is often describe in said magazines) do not exist.
One could also heat up some soup for lunch. But then, when will you eat it? You should take your time… eat slowly… this is certainly one way of aiding your digestive system and possibly even losing weight. Seeing that 45 minutes is too short for a perfect “meal-time” it’s better to just whip up a cheese sandwich and to eat it on the run, I think. This makes the process of eating less loaded, as you are distracted by something else.
But back to Friday.
The whole day is, as I said, ridiculous. In spite of the mountains of tasks barring the door to the weekend, the temptation to slip into my hiking boots and hop right over those rocks to the exit is tremendous. Panic sets in, as does the feeling of being weighed down and trapped. Usually the ONLY way to conquer that feeling is to slowly sip on a Friday lunch-time glass of wine, while methodically ploughing through the work. At least then one can pretend that the weekend has not started without you. Alcohol as a wonderful way of making any burden lighter. It is much easier to work by yourself slightly pissed.
And that would have worked today. If I did the gym thing this morning my afternoon with the Brampton Black Velvet would have been set.
Still, having written my troubles down, I realise that honestly, things are not that bad. So the panic has left me, perspective is back, I have achieved quite a bit, and even though I would have to work tomorrow morning, it is not because I spent the whole friggen week trying to figure out how to post video on WordPress. Just an extraordinary part of it.
Really. At least the blog is done. Am off to work on the calories – everything else can wait.