I shouldn’t be here. I’m supposed to be somewhere else shortly. I’m supposed to be cleaning up the kitchen. I’m supposed to be vacuuming up all the hundreds & thousands sprinkles that got spilled over our bedroom*
(*NO, not a ‘ sex-thing’. It was the kids. Promise)
There’s the washing, over there. I suppose I should be sorting them into colours and whites. My son has a runny nose {Insert candlestick metaphor}.
I don’t even need to ask if their teeth has been brushed. Of course they haven’t.
I haven’t packed snacks for the ‘somewhere else’ that just drifted a few minutes closer. I haven’t checked to see if my mobile is charged, if I have spare change.
My daughter has shoes on; the wrong shoes. Sandals. IN WINTER. Now I’ll have to spend five minutes trying to convince why it’s in her best interest to take them off and put boots as I convince my son not to change back into his Elmo pyjamas.
All this while I sit here when I shouldn’t be. Checking Twitter. Checking emails. Getting angry at myself for not getting work done, and being jealous of people who are, and even if they aren’t and just saying they are, then that’s okay too.
My book re-writes have stalled. I have a good night and then four bad ones. I’m tired. The rats have re-entered our roof and frolic all night behind our headboard. I hate the fuckers. HATE THEM.
Almost as much as I hate being unproductive.
That’s why I shouldn’t be here. So I’m going now.
