I used to always complain that I never had time to myself. I would dream things I would do if I just had one day to sort myself out. When I eventually found I had a load of time on my hands, I felt paralysed by indecision. The piano leered at me, daring me to strike a key. My bookshelves seemed to lean forward, their bulk challenging me and making me feel guilty for all of the untouched spines that stared back. There, in the corner was my cross-trainer and my exercise ball, dusty and unloved. The garden, just beginning to come to life with the recent arrival of Spring begging me to come out and plant more flowers or just to sit in the fickle sun for an hour. And finally this, this machine before me, where I tap, tap, tap on the keys begging me to write something of substance and not to read the latest article slamming American politicians or to haemorrhage minutes and hours on cat videos.
So, I have one day today to do as I please. I’ve booked a weekend away with my best friend, I’ve read a book, done some exercise, made spaghetti and will now pack for a short trip. This evening, I’ll visit a cat rescue centre and with any luck, I’ll pick a new pair of companions. If I have time, I’ll write more and maybe go for a massage. These are all simple things, but they’re all my choice and little things that make me happy. I have a simple, happy list of things to do. If you had one day to do anything you liked, what would it be?