The rain falls, kissing the guttering outside my window, making that special metallic smack smack sound. It has just lulled my two sick children off to sleep and I have retreated to my own bed, to blow my nose, read some Helen Garner, and generally wish away the time until I also feel better.
Time, though, is the one luxury that I should never, especially now, want to discard so casually. My book is deadline is in two months. Two months may not seem like much, but when you consider all the other peripheral aspects of its production (mostly marketing/ distribution issues) which still need to come together, that is nothing. A finger-snap. A beat of a metronome or the rap of a shuffle step.
While I lay here, the dryer is heaving through its rotations, trying to complete yet another load of washing I’m only now feeling capable of attempting. The windows in the house are steaming up, which is helping all of our coughing, I must say, but again gives me the claustrophobic feeling like I’m a fish being cooked in a bag. Outside it is cold, cold and I am cursing Autumn, my favourite season, for abandoning me a full month ahead of ‘schedule’; if indeed the seasons can be so scheduled anymore.
So I lie here, fully aware that the ball I usually have tucked under my arm, rugby style, has been fumbled and is bouncing along jerkily in front of me. I let it come to rest. I will chase it soon.
Just not today.
