The unopened letters on the white shelf in the dining room. They can sit. I’ll deal with them. Just, after.
The invitations. Calls and texts unreturned. Let me get through this, then I’ll know what happens next.
We should book a weekend away. But let’s see how it goes first.
The children. Puzzles struggled without my attention. New clothes to buy for next term. Niggles over toys. Now you run only to Mum with tears. She can referee. I’ll be a better Dad soon. I’ll start afresh.
My office. Papers strewn across the desk and floor. Boxes piled up. The bin overflowing, like my inbox. Close the door. I’ll come back.
Hedges overgrown. You can’t open the shed. Lettuce, oversized. Dry, full of holes, gone to seed. I’ll dig them up. I’ll do a clear up. Just not today.
The medication. Making me sleep, feeling sick, irritable. No point in changing now. I’ll deal with it once we know.
I didn’t realise I’d been waiting. It’s everything I’ve been doing.
And now the wait has gone. We had a staring match, and I won.
No growth. No enhancement.
You’ll be back in six months, but I promise I won’t wait for you.
It’s your turn to hang around doing nothing. I’m getting on with more important things.