What the fuck?

There are dozens of things I could have done today.

I could have finished reading the new Rebus.

I could have started reading this month’s Bad Girls book (My Real Children).

I could have worked on my panto lines.

I could have finalised the panto programme.

I could (given that it wasn’t raining) have planted the rest of the crocus bulbs before the first frost.

I could have pulled all the dead vegetables out of the garden.

I could have done my filing.

I could have tidied up my desk. I could have gone for a walk.

I could have finished shifting art around to accommodate my new painting.

I could have done a load of laundry.

I could have tackled the summer to winter drawer swap.

I could have put my favourite tunes on and danced around the house.

I could have got the broom out and tackled all the cobwebs.

I could have made a batch of muffins.

I could have baked cookies to take to the rehearsal tomorrow night.

I could have worked on my play.

I could have done any one (or more than one) of these things. Or any one of many, many other things. But I didn’t.

Instead, after doing my French homework on the tablet whilst finishing my cappuccino in bed, I decided to have one game of backgammon. Not spider solitaire. I’ve been cleaning for nearly a fortnight. One game of something else would be okay, wouldn’t it? Oh, ha, bloody ha. Four hours later and I’m finally out of bed.

What the fuck is wrong with me?