I don't mean literally. As in the weird dreams I have where I'm back in an office.Always just about to hand in my notice. Very strange as I don't miss having a job at all. Not even one little bit. I love having the whole of the day under my control.
My work nowadays is personal. The books I'm working on. And I haven't done fuck all work on them in the last couple of months. Other than a few recipes. Too much travelling.
Every trip knocks weeks off my work time.* Before I go, I have to write up blog posts to cover the time I'll be away. And queue up a few YouTube videos. That takes the best part of a week. When I return, another week goes writing the travel blog posts that no-one reads.
I was thinking about all this earlier. Sitting on the side of a canal reading Viz, the setting sun glints of the water in an explosion of dancing sparks, the tress on the opposite bank wave. Crows craw and moorhen peck at the grass. I could be in the countryside. If it weren't for the white traffic noise from the motorway and the buzzing of scooter.
I haven't done any proper research since August. Today, the drought ended, and I dove right back into the Young's brewing records from the late 1940s. Not the most exciting material. Lots of piss-weak Mild, even more piss-weak Mild and you're taking the piss piss-weak Mild.
It's quite satisfying to feel productive again. If only in a very abstract sense.I haven't produced any of the real end product: writing. Just something to enable that writing. And more important, in some ways, than the writing itself.
* Sometimes quite a bit of energy out of me, too. When I break something or catch pneumonia.
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