It's Sunday, like the snappy baby pink header says, and I've spent the entire day doing precisily fuck all, other than finally read the owner's manual on a car I've been driving like Colin McCrae for three weeks without knowing what all the switches are for.
The problem, as ever, is my work. Royal Mail is a bastard of an employer who demands more and more from it's delivery personnel with each passing week. It's hard physical slog that completely knackers me out, so that by Saturday I've got nothing left either physically or mentally to give. My next holiday is still four weeks away and I can't wait - no, literally!
I'm married, as many of you know, but for the first few months of that Diz and I kept separate homes, liking our individuality and freedom. Now I'm living with her full time at her place and driving every day - since I got the car. That has, inadvertantly, added to my stress level with a knock-on effect to my overall stamina. The result is things are getting left -- and that further pisses me off!
There are a number of things, jobs, demanding my immediate attention that are being let slide cause I'm just too bloody wrecked to see to them.
My novel is the primary concern for me - being the creative one. Among The Dead is literally two chapters from completion in its roughcut or workprint form, yet I can't seem to get a clear patch of time or period of calm in which to finish the writing. My mundane list of household maintenance is mounting up also. The house needs a shitload of decorating and rennovation work done on it - not that Diz and I have either the time money or worse still inclination to do anything about that! The daily motoring has meant my alcohol consumption has stopped completely. This has proved to be more irritating than I'd originally envisaged. I had just three bottles of excellent Spanish beer last night, only to awaken this morning with a hangover akin to the days that saw me able to kill a bottle of Bourbon and still get up before dawn.
Meanwhile my Brother's ghost hovers in the background of my sporadically overwrought psyche, silently or in tones I can't hear this side of the void, urging me to just suck all this maudlin shit up - motivate my fat arse to do something more with my 33 years than just be a slave to the wage. . .
The problem, as ever, is my work. Royal Mail is a bastard of an employer who demands more and more from it's delivery personnel with each passing week. It's hard physical slog that completely knackers me out, so that by Saturday I've got nothing left either physically or mentally to give. My next holiday is still four weeks away and I can't wait - no, literally!
I'm married, as many of you know, but for the first few months of that Diz and I kept separate homes, liking our individuality and freedom. Now I'm living with her full time at her place and driving every day - since I got the car. That has, inadvertantly, added to my stress level with a knock-on effect to my overall stamina. The result is things are getting left -- and that further pisses me off!
There are a number of things, jobs, demanding my immediate attention that are being let slide cause I'm just too bloody wrecked to see to them.
My novel is the primary concern for me - being the creative one. Among The Dead is literally two chapters from completion in its roughcut or workprint form, yet I can't seem to get a clear patch of time or period of calm in which to finish the writing. My mundane list of household maintenance is mounting up also. The house needs a shitload of decorating and rennovation work done on it - not that Diz and I have either the time money or worse still inclination to do anything about that! The daily motoring has meant my alcohol consumption has stopped completely. This has proved to be more irritating than I'd originally envisaged. I had just three bottles of excellent Spanish beer last night, only to awaken this morning with a hangover akin to the days that saw me able to kill a bottle of Bourbon and still get up before dawn.
Meanwhile my Brother's ghost hovers in the background of my sporadically overwrought psyche, silently or in tones I can't hear this side of the void, urging me to just suck all this maudlin shit up - motivate my fat arse to do something more with my 33 years than just be a slave to the wage. . .