Jour huit

Oh, for fuck sake. The irony is almost nauseating. Here I sat yesterday morning waxing lyrical about spending Sunday completely focussed on work. I posted Jour sept, did my French homework, then went on to Facebook to see if there was a move to make in my Scrabble game. I would just make that one move and then I would get on with my day, but my friend Krys had not made her move. Oh, fuck. As soon as I saw that and realised I hadn’t made my daily affirmation (failure to do so giving me in some way permission to go down the rabbit hole), I thought (as I have so many times before), okay, no Scrabble move, I’ll just have one game of spider solitaire. Oh, ha bloody ha. There is no such thing as just one game.

Yes, that’s right. There were numerous things I could have done with my day yesterday. I could have gone downstairs to get the guest room ready for my friend Irmani who is arriving from London next weekend. I could have washed the kitchen floor. (No excuse to avoid this now that the well hasn’t run dry.) I could have gone for a walk. I could have parked myself on the garden swing with the latest New Yorker. I could have parked myself on the sofa with the latest Michael Connelly. I could have cut out patches for a new quilt cover. I could have done my filing. I could have scrubbed the toilet. I could have done dozens of other things. Instead I sat here and played stupid fucking spider solitaire for hours. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Krys recently told me that, having read of my addiction to this stupid bloody game, she’d tried it and just didn’t get its hypnotic qualities. As I told her, neither do I. It’s a completely bloody mystery why this particular stupid game should hold me in thrall.

Why this game? I hate bloody spiders.

Anyway, John Grisham will not be proud of me today. I am not even going to attempt to write a full page. I am going to stop in a moment, post this entry and get away from the bloody computer. And, for the record, I will not play stupid fucking spider solitaire today.