A pattern seems to be appearing; I come up with a corker of an idea for the editor’s meeting, do the research, ping out a number of emails, and then wait. A wait for no one to reply, a wait for my initial interest in the story to wane, for despondency to set in, killing time. And, as my new friend Mr Trevor Roper says, “killing time,...seems to me a crime against nature”. I now fully appreciate the luxury of being master of your own time, I did before but this has really hammered the nail in. There was also a huge TV right in front of my desk showing the Olympic coverage which was a distraction, often welcome, especially the American male swim team, Ding dong.
With just over two weeks to go before returning I have started to think about what I’m going to do when I get back; about ideas for an exhibition, events, holidays, work possibilities. It’s like the honeymoon period of imagination; I can fully enjoy all flights of fancy before the reality of actually having to do them or the frustration of encountering the inevitable hurdles. This also means that I slightly start to disassociate from what I’m currently doing; the enjoyment of day dreaming about future success is ever tempting, especially when one is not over excelling at the job in hand.
I went to the weekly Tuesday yoga; I always feel a good foot taller at the end of the session. The girl in front of me had the shortest pair of shorts on, they were constantly yanked right up her bum, and when we were doing poses that required her to stick her bum in the air I felt as though I was watching an erotic movie, she should have been X-rated. If she had skipped her bikini wax I would have known about it. And I was worried about my charity shop yoga pants being slightly see through!
I had a longing for carbs so I went out for dinner again to a pasta restaurant. I was going to treat myself to a glass of wine but I had forgotten to bring my ID and was banned from ordering alcohol. This is so uncivilised.
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