Tuesday 18th October
Just lately I seem to be tired all the time; even after a relatively good nights’ sleep, one when you don’t actually remember anything, no turbulent dreams, no nocturnal wanderings, no visits to the loo disturbing your sleep pattern; even then I wake up tired. And it take such a long time to shake it off, neither a good blistering hot shower or the sharp tang of freshly cut grapefruit can spark me into action, lethargy settles like a cloak around my shoulders. I go to the laptop and log in and read the few desultory e-mails, even the adverts for concerts at the Wigmore Hall I know I will never attend, or the newsletter from John Lewis. I close down the internet and open up Word, and go into my writings folder, and even here I cannot begin to get the adrenalin going; quite a few days since I have written anything new, the famous second book as unwritten as it has ever been, the blog which you are reading now begging to be completed; why can I not think up anything new and interesting, why do I constantly rehash stuff about my mother or Grandma, why am I doomed to keep recycling the same ideas. I exit the documents, close the folder, come out of Word and switch off.
Maybe a walk will do me good, so despite the drizzle I go out and brave the elements, but I feel fagged out before I get to the end of the road, I persevere and look at the boring shop windows; nothing interests me, I do not want to buy anything at all; so I turn into the little park at the end of my high street, not even mothers pushing prams are out today and even the squirrels seem to have given up for the day. I return and try to read the newspaper, but they are still raking over the sad mess of Dr. Liam Fox and that little debacle, and I really do not care anymore about where the money came from or who knew what or who turned a blind eye to what was going on. The man was a fool, a conceited pompous fool at that, I mean did he think he could just get away with it forever, did he not realise that in our society the higher you fly the more careful you have to be? Who on earth would want to be famous nowadays with the constant scrutiny of the voracious press just waiting and begging for you to slip up. There was a phrase which Adrian, (yes, him again) used to sing in his badly off-key voice – ‘To live outside the Law, you must be Honest’, it was probably by Bob Dylan or that Cohen fellow he used to play all the time, both equally tuneless and depressing – but the phrase is remarkably true in a way.
Anyway, I cannot be bothered to even read the paper, and there is nothing on the radio, and I refuse to sink to the level of day-time television, so I go back to the laptop, open it and re-read every word I have written since Catherines Story, including all almost eighty blog entries, and although I can acknowledge that some are not so bad, I have read them all so many times now that I am tired of them. I really need a change of routine because I am tired of my tedious life, and I am tired all the time.